iTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

.       SAN  DIEGO 


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^^t"*1 

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POEMS. 


**• 


POEMS, 
* 


- 

BY 


WILLIAM    THOMPSON    BACON 


CAMBRIDGE: 

PUBLISHED    BY    GEOEGE    NICHOLS. 

NEW    YO^K:   GEORGE   P.   PUTNAM. 

1848. 


••* 
M 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

GEORGE   NICHOLS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE  : 
METCALP      AND     COMPANY, 

PRINTERS   TO   THE   UNIVERSITY. 


* 


f^r-.-      ...    + 

*  " 

V- 


[THE  author  makes  as  brief  a  Prefatory  Notice  as  is  con 
sistent  with  any  thing  like  a  right  understanding  between  him 
self  and  the  reader. 

Some  ten  years  since,  on  leaving  college,  he  published  a 
small  book  of  poems.  That  book,  notwithstanding  its  faults, 
was  received  with  some  favor,  and  was  republished  the  fol 
lowing  year,  with  additions.  Soon  after  that,  the  author  made 

choice  of  a  grave  profession,  and  found  himself  compelled 

and,  as  he  supposed,  for  ever  — to  relinquish  a  literary  life,  ill 
health,  however,  soon  threw  him  from  this,  and  finally  into  a 
more  practical  position,  and  then  into  that  greatest  maelstrom 
of  this  country,  politics,  which  swallows  up  so  much  of  the 
talent  and  energy  of  the  nation.  In  the  midst  of  this,  bat 
tling  with  ill  health,  under  the  demands  of  a  daily  press, 
and  yet  with  early  and  youthful  feelings  kindling  up,  this 
volume  has  been  prepared. 

Possibly  the  circumstances  under  which  the  book  is  thus 
brought  forward  will  not  be  considered  in  all  respects  most 
favorable  to  give  the  nice  finish  that  belongs  to  the  poetic  art, 
nor,  indeed,  fit  any  book  to  challenge  the  demands  or  nice  criti- 


VI 


cism ;  and  yet  the  author  would  not  offer  these  circumstan 
ces  as  any  apology  for  whining  imbecility  or  obtrusive  dul- 
ness.  If  his  book  have  faults,  but  yet  has  a  soul  in  it,  that 
soul  will  bear  it  up  in  spite  of  them,  and  all  the  artistical 
perfection  on  earth  would  not  save  from  ultimate  condemna 
tion,  and  consequent  oblivion,  a  book  that  had  not  this  —  the 
living,  seminal  principle  of  all  sound  poetry.  Truth,  sense, 
and  vigor  are  the  three  constituent  elements  of  good  poetry ; 
if  a  book  have  these,  they  will  carry  it  through  that  clash  of 
criticism  which  deals  with  trifles,  as  a  warrior's  strength  carries 
him  to  the  battle's  front,  though  he  may  lose  his  plume  from 
the  side-stroke  of  some  pigmy.  If  a  book  have  not  some 
thing  of  these,  it  ought  to  fail,  and  the  sooner  the  better. 

The  reader  may  recognize  portions  of  this  volume  as  a  re- 
publication.  The  author  has  here  saved  such  as  his  severer 
judgment  would  retain.  Some  of  the  pieces  have  been  vari 
ously  republished,  —  in  some  of  the  compilations  and  else 
where,  —  and  the  author  feels  this  in  some  sort  an  apology,  if 
any  be  demanded,  for  the  presumption  of  obtruding  another 
volume  on  public  attention. 

The  preparation  of  the  book,  however,  has  been  his  pleasure, 
—  it  is  published  with  some  hope  to  afford  pleasure;  its  fail 
ure  cannot  rob  him  of  the  first  of  these  rewards.] 

NEW  HAVEN,  Dec.  1, 1848. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

THE  FALLEN  EAGLE    . 3 

THE  FUTURE  LIFE 7 

LIFE.  —  PART  FIRST \        .        .10 

LIFE.  —  PABT  SECOND     .......  23 

LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK 36 

REPROOF ,  .           .           .  47 

A   VISION   OF   WAR 50 

MORNING 54 

"I  ROAM  THE  WORLD,"  &C 58 

LIFE'S  PROMPTINGS 63 

THIS  COUNTRY  PRODIGAL  IN  THEMES  FOR  POETBY        .  67 

ENERGY  OF  THE  PAST  WORTHY  OF  IMITATION    .     •*.  71 


via 


MAT   MORNING 

TO   

HEARTS   WE    LOVE 
THE    FIRS' 
DREAMS 


THE    ISLAND 
SHADOWS 
THE   FOUNTAIN 
PEN   AND    INK 


uuivi.br 

,13. 

IRITUAL   LIFE 

.        .        .         .78 

IE   SEASONS 

82 

IEDITATION    . 

85 

FOREST 

92 

96 

.         .         .           98 

9VE 

104 

CEMBER   STORM 

108 

112 

FAME 

.         .         .         116 

S   FOR   FREEDOM    . 

119 

YOUTH       . 

123 

E   US"     . 

.....     126 

BATTLE-SONG 

129 

CGHBY   . 

133 

CHEERFULNESS 

137 
139 

14° 

*      . 

145 
...         .         .         150 

HIS   CHILD     . 

152 

CONTENTS.  IX 

' 

WINTER  SCENE  FROM  A  WINDOW 155 

THE  INDIAN  SUMMER 159 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "  THE  PASTIME." 

PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF   THE  WORLD  FAVORABLE   TO 

PURITY  OF  HEART 161 

AFRICA  COMPASSIONATED       .       .       .       .       .  171 
THE  POET  AND  THE  SPIRIT  OF  JOT         .        .        .        .178 

"HOPE  ON"              . 181 

"  THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  BOUGH  STIRR'D  "  .        .        .        .  183 

LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS  AT  NEW  HAVEN        .        .  185 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN     . 187 

A  SABBATH  MORNING      ...       .       .       .       .       .  190 

THE  MARTYR  MAID     .        .       .       .    ' .   .       .       .       .  192 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "  CHILDHOOD." 

INTRODUCTION 194 

THE  FRUIT-YARD 200 

THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE 202 

EARLY  FRIENDSHIPS         .        .                .        .        .  209 

A  WALK  IN  THE  FOREST 214 

VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  THE  ROCKS    .        .        .  219 

A  CONNECTICUT  VILLAGE  CHARACTER                        .  222 


X  CONTENTS. 

f 

A  PURITAN  POET'S   APOSTROPHE  TO   THE   EPISCOPAL 

CHURCH,   WITH   A   PANEGYRIC   ON   HIS   OWN    .           .  226 

THE   PLACE   OF   GRAVES 230 

CONCLUSION 232 

THE   HEART   AND    COT   OF   MY   OWN            ....  236 

"  O,   GIVE   ME   THE   HILLS,"   &C 238 

NONSENSE 240 

THE   WAVE 244 

NEW   ENGLAND 248 

THE   CITY'S   CEMETERY 253 

TEACHINGS    OF    NATURE     IN    CONNECTION    WIH    HIGHER 

TRUTH .            .            .  256 

"WHO  EVER  ASK'D,"  &c 260 

EAST-MEADOW   BROOK 264 

THE   RIVER  WILLOW     . 268 

NOTES 273 


POEMS. 


THE    FALLEN    EAGLE. 


AND  thou  hast  then  come  down  here  from  thy  height, 
Bird  of  the  sun  !     Thou  mayst  no  longer  beat 
The  broad  air  with  thy  wings — fly  at  the  storm 
Coming  out  from  the  north,  or  sweep  away 
In  all  thy  majesty  and  glory  on 
Ever  before  it  —  turning  now  thine  eye 
In  scorn  at  the  red  lightnings  launch'd  along 
Thy  passage,  or  with  thy  loud  scream  outdoing 
The  very  thunder.     Thou  hast  been  struck  down 
From  thy  high  place.     Thy  vigorous  wing  no  more 
Can  beat  the  void,  and  raise  thee  up.     Thine  eye 
Stareth  no  longer  at  the  sun,  or  dareth 
All  he  can  fling  at  thee.    Thy  noble  heart, 
King  of  the  sky  !  no  longer  beats  and  throbs, 


4  THE    FALLEN    EAGLE. 

All  conscious  of  its  innate  majesty 
And  almost  godlike  glory.     Thou  art  struck, 
As  't  were  a  star  from  its  high  place,  and  here, 
Draggled  and  wet,  thy  plumes  torn  or  pluck'd  out, 
Thou  liest  and  gaspest. 

Whose  power,  kingly  one! 
Mark'd    thee,    and    smote   thee  ?      'T  was    not    man's,  —  his 

thought, 

Grasping  and  great  as  't  is,  can  king  it  not 
Over  thy  realm.     He  may  behold  thee  —  ay, 
He  doth,  and  his  proud  thought  will  sweep  thy  track, 
And  as  thou  dost,  so  will  he  mark  the  sun, 
And  try  to  steal  his  glory.     But  his  power, 
O,  't  is  of  earth,  and  not,  thou  king !  where  thou 
Ridest  and  reignest.     Was  't  the  storm  ?    No.     We 
Beheld  thee  gaze  at  that  —  ascend  and  play 
With  the  live  clouds,  like  billows  o'er  heaven's  face 
Crowded  on  by  loud,  harrowing  winds !     We  saw  thee 
Mark  its  approach,  and  when  thou  hadst,  aspiring, 
Shown  thine  own  kingly  daring,  then  afar 
Sweep  in  thy  conscious  kingship,  scorning  both 
The  storm's  fire,  and  its  bellowings  —  and  then 
Thou  didst  ascend  above  its  track,  and,  calmly, 
See  it,  thy  subject,  thundering  on  below  ! 


THE    FALLEN    EAGLE. 

Who  cast  thee  down  then,  king  ?     Was  it  that  King 

Who  is  indeed  king  ?     He  who  made  this  air 

Thou  dar'st  to  play  with  so  ?  —  this  earth  ?  —  all  earths  ? 

And  all  this  glorious  framework  that  we  see, 

Both  when  the  day  comes,  and  when  Night  brings  down 

The  mighty  worlds,  that  stretch  afar,  and  on, 

Where  thought  can  pierce  not  ?     He  who  made  that  heart, 

So  lion-like  ?  and  gave  that  form  that  holds  it  ? 

And  that  proud  wing,  thy  heart's  slave,  by  which  thou 

Dost  king  it  through  the  sky  ?  —  yes,  and  e'en  o'er 

The  storm,  thy  master's  glory  ?     Yes,  't  was  He, 

King  '.  —  but  a  king  no  more  —  who  smote  thee  down, 

As  't  were  morn's  proudest  cresset  from  its  place, 

And  here,  with  all  that  's  base  of  earth  has  cast  thee 

To  flutter  in  the  mire,  and  gasp  arid  die. 

I  wonder  if  thou  hast  a  heart,  proud  bird ! 
Like  to  all  other  hearts  that  beat  and  are 
A  part  of  the  upholding  fire  and  life 
And  energy  of  the  living  Universe ! 
Did  it  in  some  one  part  keep  (shut  from  all 
Eyes  but  thine  own,  and  that  one  other  heart's 
That  shared  thy  weakness)  feelings,  such  as  thrill, 
And  make  that  heart  leap  with  a  pulse  no  language 


6  THE    FALLEN    EAGLE. 

Can  fully  speak  of?     Is  there  some  peak  now, 

Jutting  up  from  old  mounts  somewhere  on  earth, 

Where  thou  'st  an  eyrie  ?  • —  to  which  flew  thy  thought 

With  passion,  from  thy  proud  track  near  the  sun  — 

And  down  to  which,  as  faithful  as  the  light, 

Thou  sped'st  when  night  wrapp'd  earth,  and  where  thou  stay- 

edst 

Till  the  morn  rous'd  thee  up  again  ?     And  there, 
Didst  thou,  with  pride,  look  on  thy  younglings  —  dreaming 

Of  the  far  time  when,  with  thee,  'mid  the  light 

j 
And  blaze  of  heaven's  noon,  they  should  amaze  us 

As  thou  dost  ?     That  proud  heart,  as  we  must  deem, 
Beat  with  the  madness  of  that  fire  that  burns 
Where  heart  and  life  are ;  and  that  fire  may  now 
Be  burning  —  drinking  thy  life's  stream — the  worst 
Drop  of  thy  sorrows. 

Noble  bird  !  like  thee, 
Many  an  eagle  mind  is  smote  from  out 
Its  proud  track  near  the  sun,  and  like  thine  own 
Crush'd  in  the  dust ;  and  like  thy  noble  heart 
Many  are  rent,  and  like  thee  too,  perhaps, 
They  sigh  for  life's  last  freedom — and  in  vain. 


THE    FUTURE    LIFE. 


THERE  is  a  life  beyond  this  life  of  ours 
Where  griefs  must  cease  and  anguish  lose  its  powers  ; 
For  high,  for  low,  for  rich  —  for  all  unblest, 
That  life  is  open,  and  there  all  may  rest. 
As  on  we  go,  all  toiling  day  by  day, 
Darkness  above,  and  horror  round  our  way ; 
False  friends  without,  and  falser  ones  within, 
Curs'd  with  sin's  evils,  and  yet  loving  sin  ; 
Dead  to  the  beauty  that  would  come  abroad 
From  all  the  grandeur  of  the  works  of  God  ; 
And  dumb,  so  oft,  to  voices  from  on  high, 
Offering  to  cheer  us  'mid  life's  agony, — 
O,  yes,  there  yet  is,  far  beyond  this  shore, 
A  land  of  rest,  where  anguish  stings  no  more. 


THE    FUTURE    LIFE. 

O,  art  thou  one  who  enter'd  first  on  life, 
With  a  heart  eager  "for  its  dusty  strife  ; 
Dreaming  of  nothing  save  a  path  all  flowers, 
Or  soft  winds  whispering  through  Eden  bowers ; 
Thinking  mankind  were  ever  what  they  seem, 
Truth  on  their  lips,  which  truth  they  will  redeem; 
And  deeming  too,  sweet  health  should  ever  fire 
Each  bounding  limb,  and  every  pulse  inspire ;  — 
Yet  dragging  now  along  life's  sorrowing  path, 
Frown'd  on  by  men,  and  frighten'd  by  Heaven's  wratli ; 
And  seeing  nothing  from  the  future  given 
To  lend  one  lingering  smile  that  leads  towards  Heaven  — 
O,  deem  thou  not,  life  curs'd  thus  ever  here,  — 
There  is  another  and  eternal  year. 

And  O,  the  loss,  while  here,  for  want  of  eye 
To  pierce  the  dim  veil  of  futurity  ; 
And  O,  the  gain,  of  him  who  walks  abroad, 
And  sees  earth  wear  the  garments  of  a  God  ! 
Then  the  broad  heaven  puts  on  ethereal  glow, 
And  the  green  world  seems  deck'd  for  Eden  show  ; 
Breathe  the  soft  winds,  and  gush  the  streams  with  voice, 
To  bid  the  spirit  of  the  world  rejoice  ; 


THE    FUTURE    LIFE. 

Twitter  the  birds,  and  rustle  the  green  trees, 
With  a  soft  music  as  designed  to  please  ; 
E'en  the  hoarse  forest  and  the  echoing  shore 
Say  to  the  heart  be  still,  and  weep  no  more. 

Thus  all  around  us  may  some  wisdom  give, 
When  the  poor  heart  is  fitted  to  receive  j 
Seasons  that  change,  the  Winter  and  the  Spring, 
Summer  to  charm,  and  Autumn,  fruits  to  bring  ; 
Each  varying  object,  as  we  onward  go, 
Saying  be  still,  nor  faint  beneath  the  blow. 

O,  thou  then  fainting  on  the  dusty  road, 
That  leads,  though  hidden,  to  the  mount  of  God, 
Ask  for  the  truth  —  look  in,  and  look  around  — 
Seek  the  high  record  where  all  truth  is  found  ; 
And  see  there  set  before  thee  the  low  way 
Thy  feet  must  take,  wouldst  thou  behold  the  day  - 
The  far-off  brightness  streaming  from  the  throne, 
To  cheer  thee  on,  and  teach  that  land  thine  own  ! 


10 


LIFE. 


PART     FIRST. 


BEAUTIFUL  Spirit,  coming  once  again, 

Whose  kindling  fire  we  now  feel  round  the  heart, 
Teach  us  to  wake  a  nobler,  manlier  strain, 

Essaying  once  again  the  poet's  Art ! 

Give  the  mind  force  —  let  every  feeling  start 
Into  its  loftiest,  noblest  exercise ; 

Nor  from  the  bosom  with  thy  light  depart, 

Till  we  have  spoke  the  truths  that  in  us  rise, 

And  in  a  song  of  fire,  poured  forth  their  mysteries  ! 


LIFE.  11 


Is  it  a  vain  dream,  them  canst  lead  us  forth, 

Along  the  higher,  nobler  track  of  song  ? 
Feel  we  jiot  in  us  that  exalted  worth  — 

Feeling  and  energy,  the  which  belong 

To  all  that  would  be  great  —  with  which  among 
The  great  of  earth  we  walk  and  valued  are  ? 

Whence  then  these  promptings,  as  immortal  strong, 
Ever  within  us,  teaching  us  to  dare 
Those  loftier,  prouder  heights,  which  gods  alone  may  share  ? 


O,  was  't  a  cheat — a  light  that  led  astray  — 
Coming  afar  in  years  that  have  gone  by ; 

And  teaching  us  to  chant  an  idle  lay, 
And  from  the  glory  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Draw  forth  a  beauty  which  the  inner  eye 

Of  man's  great  soul  alone  may  gaze  upon  ;  — 
Made  the  heart  glow  with  wild  intensity, 

If  we  but  gazed  upon  the  coming  sun, 
Or  on  his  glorious  set,  when  his  day's  work  was  don«  ? 


'* 


12  LIFE. 


•   tli 


Give  then  that  energy  of  heart  and  thought.; 

Make  the  line  ring  like  to  a  trumpet's  tone  ; 
And  O,  inform  with  wisdom  high,  which,  brought 

As  from  the  very  presence  of  that  One 

Sitting  in  unapproachable  light  alone, 
Leads'  us  along  the  mighty  track  of  truth  ! 

And  as  the  hand  upon  the  lyre  is  thrown, 
Wake  thou  each  feeling  !  —  give  that  fire  forsooth, 
That  dwells  in  gifted  hearts  —  the  fervor  of  our  youth ! 


The  soul,  far  coming  from  its  unknown  birth, 
Up,  on  to  life  has  enter'd ;  —  it  stands  here, 
Gazing  around  upon  the  glorious  earth, 


And  far  away  upon  the  heavens  clear ;  — 


Within  us  all  is  strange,  but  there  appear 
Feelings  and  promptings,  given  each,  true  and  high, 

As  if  we  had  lived  in  some  other  sphere ;  — 
Yet  here  we  are,  and  by  mortality 

Clogg'd,  —  still  we  feel  our  powers,  though  chain'd,  can  nev 
er  die. 


'* 

LIFE.  13 


How  shall  we  solve  life's  mysteries  ?  —  come,  tliou 

Spirit  of  wisdom,  in  a  world  of  night; 
And  we  would  wander  forth,  and  we  would  know 

What  may  be  learn'd,  —  would  learn  too  with  delight 

Yea,  we  with  reverence  bow  to  Truth's  great  might ! 
Wherever  truth  is  we  would  search  —  and  O, 

We  would  the  spirit  have  that  loves  the  right, 
Following  that  path,  no  matter  where  it  go, 
Whether  it  darkness  be,  or  Heaven's  lights  o'er  it  glow  ! 


Shall  we  look  up  the  track  of  time  ?  shall  we 

Take  the  great  pictures  History  sets  forth  ? 
Nations  that  have  been  great  —  look  there  and  see 

The  wisdom  that  is  glorious  for  the  earth  ? 

Egypt,  Greece,  Rome,  or  others  of  high  worth  — 
Shall  they  give  forth  the  truths  the  heart  would  claim  ? 

And  can  they  teach  us,  solemn  or  in  mirth, 

That  which  would  give  to  earth  its  noblest  aim, 

And  the  high  spirit  crown  at  last  with  endless  fame  ? 


14  LIFE. 


Gaze  4>n  old  Egypt  in  her  dusty  pride  — 
Miser  in  knowledge,  —  never  giving  forth 

Aught  that  could  bless  the  world,  herself  beside  — 
And  hoarding  up  her  wisdom  there  and  worth, 
Till  she  did  deem  herself  the  all  of  earth, 

And  shut  from  the  great  family  of  man  ; 
The  wisdom  too  that  only  brought  a  dearth 

To  her  own  subjects,  as  it  was  her  plan 
To  shut  it  from  the  mass, —  few  only  there  might  gain 


The  high  court  of  the  Temple  of  high  Truth  — 
Sit  at  her  shrine  for  lessons  —  their  own  soul 

Bless  with  its  beauty  and  immortal  youth ; 
While  o'er  all  others  Ignorance  might  roll 
Like  a  vast  tide,  and  curse  with  its  control 

Mind  and  soul  both,  and  crush  them  into  dust. 
Behold  her  wisdom  !  value  it,  the  whole ! 

That  which  ne'er  felt  that  knowledge  was  a  trust 
Which  must  be  us'd  for  all  —  so  Heaven  had  deem'd  it  just. 


LIFE.  15 


Is  this  then  wisdom  for  us  ?  are  we  so 

To  seek  Truth's  temple,  and  her  mysteries 

Thus  to  unlock, — that  we  ourselves  may  know 
What  are  her  secrets,  and  yet  for  all  these 
Millions  around  us,  who,  it  would  Heaven  please, 

Should  know  with  us,  feel  naught,  and  nothing  care  ? 
So  shall  we  please  that  Love  sublime,  which  sees 

From  the  high  heavens  where  truth  and  virtue  are, 
And  which  He  dwells  with  ever,  as  doth  Truth  declare  : 


Turn  to  that  other  land — of  light,  of  song, 
Beauty  and  glory  !     Land  where  Fancy  flies 

And  lingers  long  delighted ;  ay,  among. 

Her  glorious  scenes  enraptur'd ;  'neath  her  skies 
Walks  with  mute  wonder  at  their  witcheries ! 

Beautiful  Greece  !  thy  beauty  lingers  still 

On  thy  bright  skies,  and  on  the  earth  it  lies ; 

Yet  hath  a  light,  which  once  the  soul  could  fill, 
Pass'd  from  thine  every  shore,  and  fount  and  cave  and  hill 


16  LIFE. 


Yet  gaze  upon  her  in  immortal  pride  ! 

Gaze  at  her  loveliness  of  earth  and  sky  ! 
Then  turn  and  gaze  upon  the  glory  wide, 

Flashing  on  every  side,  —  of  soul,  thought  high, 

And  genius  in  transcendent  majesty ! 
Go  to  great  Greece  in  all  her  glory  seen  ; 

Glory  that  makes  the  heart  ache  ;  fix  the  eye 
Upon  it ;  —  if  not  dazzled  at  its  sheen, 
Tell  us  was  wisdom  there?  there  hath  it  ever  been? 


Beauty  was  there  —  such  as  did  ever  start 

Forth  from  the  godlike  mind,  and  power  of  soul. 

We  see  it ;  it  pervaded  every  part ; 
Of  every  energy  it  took  control, 
Subjected  it,  was  master  of  the  whole  ;  — 

Yet  was  it  aught  than  evil,  though  deck'd  forth 
In  light  that  seem'd  to  darken  either  pole, 

And  fling  a  wondrous  glory  o'er  the  earth, 
Till  earth's  sons   deem'd   themselves  as  gods  —  ay,  from  their 
birth  ? 


LIFE.  17 


Did  lovely  Greece  possess  a  heart  ?  look  there  ! 

Where  are  its  traces?     Her  mind  lit  the  scene 
Up  with  all  beauty ;  —  caught  it  from  the  air  — 

Caught  it  from  wave  and  ocean,  forest  green  — 

This  we  there  see — we  wonder  at  its  sheen;  — 
Had  she  a  heart?    Had  she  a  soul,  stern  vow'd 

To  the  great  work  that  should  her  work  have  been,  — 
The  work  of  Love,  wherever  wrong  had  bow'd 
The  crush'd  soul  to  the  earth,  or  guilt  the  same  had  cowed  ? 


Look'd  she  forth  o'er  the  earth  ?  on  man  look'd  she  ? 

Felt  the  same  blood  beat  in  her  kindling  veins 
That  did  earth's  whole  heart  fire,  and  make  beat  free  ; 

Or  strive  at  least  to  burst  off  the  foul  chains 

Evil  bound  on  her  —  free  her  from  the  stains 
Evil  had  given  to  the  godlike  soul  ? 

Where  are  her  plans  for  such  exalted  gains  ? 
Where  do  we  see,  or  feel,  she  had  control, 
Such  as  doth  bless  earth's  throng  —  or  one  out  of  the  whole  ? 
2 


18  LIFE. 


We  see  no  eye  that  northward  look'd  afar, 
Or  south  or  to  the  east  or  to  the  west ; 

Nor  a  heart  beating  'gainst  each  mighty  bar 
That  stopp'd  her  in  her  efforts,  till  she  bless'd 
All  of  earth's  hearts,  or  wearied  or  distress'd. 

In  lovely  wickedness  she  rather  sate  ; 

Her  poets  sung  her  beauty;  she  was  dress'd 

In  all  the  mind  can  lend  to  make  earth  great, 
While  her  foul  heart  was  foul  indeed  —  ay,  desolate 


And  hark,  a  trumpet  —  martial  —  sounding  on 
From  the  "  Hill'd  City  "  gathering  up  her  power ; 

Binding  the  earth's  great  nations  one  by  one, 
Doubling  her  mighty  conquests  every  hour, 
Till  earth  for  conquest  offer'd  her  no  more ! 

Enter  her  streets,  walk  with  us  through  them  all, 
Gaze  on  each  palace,  where  her  temples  soar, 

Yet  hark  !  that  loud,  that  captive-startling  call  — 
For  Rome,  great  Rome,  now  holds  her  solemn  festival ! 


LIFE.  19 


It  is  to  stretch  her  mighty  arms  afar, 

Drag  home  her  captives  —  in  vast  crowds  they  come  ! 
Pour  forth  a  tide  of  desolating  war, 

And  a  great  concourse  troop  —  to  what  a  doom ! 

And  here,  where  rises  now  a  lordly  dome, 
Rome  gathers  in  her  beauty  and  her  might ! 

Mark  there  where  blood,  free  as  the  ocean's  foam, 
Streams  in  vast  torrents  in  the  fiercest  fight, 
Yet  is  't  with  beasts,  and  pure  Rome  glories  at  the  sight ! 


And  is  this  virtue  ?  —  may  we  dream  it  is  ?  — 

Stretching  thus  her  great  arms  forth  round  the  earth  ? 

Love  should  go  forth  indeed !     Rome  did,  in  this, 

c 
Obey  the  great  command  anji  journey  forth. 

But  did  she  go,  a  God  —  with  godlike  worth  — 
And  make  the  nations  welcome  her  divine  ? 

Ah,  we  may  look  in  vain,  —  it  is  a  dearth  ! 
Her  great  soul  had  no  altar,  whence  did  shine 
Light  to  illume  the  world  —  there  was  no  hallow'd  shrine  ! 


20  LIFE. 


Would  we  be  great  as  tyrants,  and  in  guilt 

Write  our  names  high  upon  the  scroll  of  fame ; 
See  how  much  human  blood  there  may  be  spilt, 

And  with  such  treasure  purchase  a  bright  name ; 

Would  we  in  Rome's  proud  niche  a  proud  place  claim, 
And  from  that  height  look  down  upon  the  earth  ;  — 

Make  her  our  model !  let^'s  all  do  the  same ! 
Call  virtue  vice,  vice  virtue,  truth  and  worth 
Banish  afar,  and,  fiend-like,  let  us  sally  forth  ! 


Or  shall  we  leap  o'er  ages  —  when  that  tide, 
Bursting  away  out  from  the  savage  north, 

Roll'd  down  on  earth's  great  Queen  in  all  her  pride, 
And  swept  her,  in  its  mighty  going  forth, 
Almost  as  't  were  a  feather  from  the  earth ; 

And  when  had  priestly  Domination  ta'en 

The  sceptre  in  her  hands^  and  call'd  it  worth, 

And  is  seen  rioting  on  souls  just  slain;  — 
Shall  we  look  here,  and  from  this  dark  scene  wisdom  gain : 


LIFE.  21 


O,  is  't  Heaven-born,  this  thirst  for  human  power, 

Whether  in  "  saintly  rottenness  "  it  stand  ; 
Or  whether  it  by  Civil  force  would  cower, 

And  tread  and  crush  the  spirit  of  the  land  ? 

Tear  off  the  robe  —  look  on  it —  't  is  Command, 
In  all  its  evil  and  gigantic  sway; 

And  it  would  sweep  all  good  away  —  would  band 
As  soon  the  evil  'gainst  the  good  —  away 
Sweep  all  the  light  from  earth  —  ay,  banish  every  ray. 


We  see  Truth  here  a  tyrant !     With  one  hand 
Holding  a  garbled  book  —  miscall'd  of  God  — 

She  goes  forth,  and  her  look  is  but  command ; 
And  in  her  other  hand  she  grasps  a  rod, 
And  't  is  of  scorpions.     And  each  path  that  's  trod 

By  this  new  tyrant,  crushing  the  earth  down, 
Is  bloodied.     For  her  love  hath  never  shod 

First,  the  poor  subjects  she  pretends  to  own;  — 
She  drives  them  forth,  yet  talks  of  an  immortal  crown  ! 


22  LIFE. 


Yet  have  some  been  —  let  's  just  be,  while  severe  — 

Robed  in  much  light.     Their  hearts  with  love  have  beat, 

s 

And  Charity,  as  Heaven  itself  sincere, 
Has  for  a  while  filled  the  exalted  seat, 
Miscall'd  God's  own.     Truth  hath,  ay,  we  repeat, 

Come  to  Rome's  altars.     Music,  as  of  Heaven, 
Has  rung  in  cloisters,  cells,  and  heavenly  sweet ; 

Perhaps  Rome  hath  an  almoner  been  even, 
And  she  hath  bound  up  hearts  that  guilt  or  wrong  had  riven  ; 


Yet  view  her  as  a  whole  in  pride  and  lust, 
Grasping  as  earth  is  wide,  perverting  light, 

That  she  might  only  tread  earth  into  dust, 

Then  rear  her  own  great  bulk  aloft  in  might, — 
Gaze  on  her,  and  not  sicken  at  the  sight ! 

See  her,  and  then  Hot  feel  to  look  away, 

If  we  the  source  would  find,  whence  truth  and  right 

Come  forth  to  bless  the  earth,  change  night  to  day, 
And  cheer  the  immortal  soul  with  an  immortal  ray  ! 


LIFE. 


23 


* 


LIFE. 


PART     SECOND. 


WHERE  then  look  we  for  truth,  since  it  is  not 

Given  in  the  glory  of  the  times  of  old  ? 
Since  to  the  longing  heart  thence  't  is  not  brought  — 

And  nothing  see  we  that  for  good  controll'd, 

And  o'er  the  longing  human  spirit  rolPd 
That  tide  of  bliss  for  which  we  ever  thirst ; 

Where  shall  we  look  for  it  —  truth  strong  and  bold  ?  — 
That  which,  once  ours,  makes  feel  we  are  not  curs'd, 
But  at  that  fount  of  bliss,  whence  life  indeed  hath  burst  ? 


24  LIFE. 


If  Egypt  could  not  bless  us  from  her  height, 

Nor  Greece  in  her  divinity  and  grace  ; 
Nor  the  "  Hill'd  City"  in  her  pride  and  might, 

Nay,  nor  great  Rome  herself,  when  had  given  place 

The  Civil  to  the  Heavenly,  and  we  trace 
Some  of  Heaven's  lineaments  in  her  face  divine  ; 

Where  shall  we  look  ?  —  where  shall  we  go  ?  —  how  chase 
Truth  as  she  flies  from  us  ?  where  is  that  shrine, 
Whence   comes  the  light,  we   feel,  o'er  all  the  earth   should 
shine  ? 


Shall  we  come  down  to  that  philosophy, 

Which  bids  us  o'er  the  breast  of  Nature  go  ; 
Walk  forth  'neath  morn's  or  'neath  the  evening's  sky, 

Or  when  perhaps  the  noon's  bright  sun  doth  glow ; 

Or  where  the  waters  may  sublimely  flow, 
As  Ocean  rolls  his  boisterous  waves  along ; 

Or  go  forth  where  the  river's  flood  doth  show 
Its  grace  and  beauty  earth's  bright  scenes  among, 
Or  doth  the  cataract  sound  its  trembling,  thunder-song  — 


LIFE.  25 


Or  when  the  changing  seasons  give  their  life, 
Their  beauty,  or  luxuriance,  or  their  pride  — 

Winter,  when  all  his  storms  are  up  in  strife, 
Or  Spring,  in  grace  and  beauty  like  a  bride, 
Doth  in  her  robe  of  beauty  o'er  earth  glide 

Like  to  a  fairy  o'er  enchanted  seas ; 
Or  doth  the  Summer  come  with  her  full  tide, 

Or  Autumn  with  crush'd  flowers  and  faded  trees, 
And  his  sad  songs  sends  forth  with  every  rising  breeze  ; 


And  shall  we  here,  from  all  this  life  and  grace, 

This  change,  this  rnusic,  or  this  sadness,  find 
The  wisdom  that  should  take  the  first  high  place 

In  the  great  soul  of  man,  and  o'er  his  mind ; 

Teaching  him  so  to  go  forth  to  his  kind, 
And  his  great  powers  to  such  high  purpose  use, 

As  should  for  ever  leave  sweet  joys  behind, 
Where  he  has  been  with  benefits  profuse ; 
While  his  own  heart  leaps  too,  as  onward  he  pursues? 


26  LIFE. 


O,  is  it  true,  we  have  no  clearer  guide, 

Guide  with  distincter  voice  —  no  plainer  way  — 
Such  as  the  plainest  heart  —  away  from  pride  — 

May  see  at  once ;  a  path  where  all  is  day, 

Ahd  made  so  by  a  Heaven-directed  ray 
Flung  over  it  —  ay,  its  whole  course  along  ? 

Would  the  Love,  plainly  seen,  as  on  we  stray 
Through  the  bright  earth,  leave  earth's  deluded  throng 
Thus  to  grope  forward,  these  rough  rocks  and  paths  among 


O,  we  must  feel  Love  watches  what  it  made, 

Meant  to  and  will  still  guide  it  to  the  end ; 
And  that  Love  hath  with  greater  light  display'd 

Itself  man's  living  and  eternal  friend  ! 

We  deem  it  hath  sent,  still  doth,  and  will  send 
Another  light  to  light  man  towards  the  goal; 

And  he  who  will  look  to  it,  and  will  bend 
Humbly,  and  yield  him  to  its  great  control, 
It  will  forever  guide,  —  ay,  and  restore  the  soul 


LIFE.  27 


To  the  high  place,  from  whence,  flung  like  the  star 
Shot  from  the  sphere  of  morning,  it  goes  on 

Wandering  now  oft  in  darkness  wide  and  far, 
Till  it  has  lost  for  ever  the  bright  sun, 
In  whose  pure  light  it  should  for  ever  run  ! 

And  it  will  give  again  th'  exalted  bliss, 

Once  like  a  stream  pour'd  through  it — help  it  shun 

Evils  that  ever  in  a  world  like  this, 
Steal  from  the  heart  its  truth,  or  crush  with  miseries  ! 


Where  is  this  guide  ?  't  is  in  our  hands  —  behold ! 

Low  and  despised  it  may  be  —  still  't  is  here ; 
Its  pages  are  indeed  wrought  forth  from  gold, 

And,  being  welcom'd,  all  as  heaven  clear, 

Grow  brighter  with  each  rapid,  circling  year. 
He  who  would  read  it  must  be  humble  too ; 

But  he  who  will  thus  read  its  truths  severe, 
Shall  hear  a  voice  from  Heaven,  that  breatheth  through 
His  perfect  nature,  heart  and  soul  all  to  renew. 


28  LIFE. 


What  is  the  proof  't  is  Love  divine  ?     We  turn, 

Giving  no  schoolman's  answer,  half-way  heard, 
But  point  you  where  one  eye  of  man  doth  mourn, 

Wherever  is  one  heart  of  sorrow  stirr'd ; 

Wherever  God's  bright  image  hath  been  blurr'd, 
On  the  wide  earth — and  bid  you  see  sent  there, 

This  same  eternal,  ever-living  Word;  — 
Or  see  its  struggles  made  thus,  to  declare 
Whence  is  this  light  from  heaven,  wide  as  earth's  miseries  are. 


This  same  Love  looks  afar  to  south  and  north  — 
The  east  and  west  it  looks  to  —  and  it  would 

To  every  tribe>  name,  nation,  race,  go  forth, 
And  cheer  them  in  the  gloomy  solitude ;  — 
Cheer  the  dark  isles  that  have  for  ages  stood 

In  the  proud  ocean  —  cheer  cold,  frozen  seas  ;  — 
Cheer  the  rude  savage  in  his  savage  mood, 

And  cheer  old  Afric  too,  now  on  her  knees 
With  hands  and  arms  stretch'd  forth,  shouting  her  miseries. 


LIFE.  29 


He  who  hath  welcom'd  this,  behold  !  how  now 

All  light  breaks  on  him  !     Pass  life's  mysteries ; 
The  past  instructs  us ;  and  the  present  flow 

Of  evil  round  him,  like  to  swollen  seas 

Dashing  aloft,  and  human  miseries 
Sent  to  the  eye,  and  crowding  on  each  side ; 

And  all  the  mysteries  within  him  —  these 
Are  at  once  light!  —  light  flashing  far  and  wide, 
Forth  and  o'er  all  —  't  is  pour'd  around  him  like  a  tide ! 


What  is  the  truth  of  History  ?  look  there, 

Where  the  past  nations  rise  sublime  and  die  !  — 
Egypt,  that  once  was  surely  great  and  fair  — 

And  Grecia  too,  with  vale  and  hill  and  sky 

All  beautiful,  and  glowing  holily, 
So  did  the  beauty  seem  of  her  fair  day  !  — 

And  Rome,  whose  godlike  might  did  seem  to  vie 
Almost  with  Heaven's  —  who  almost  dared  to  say 
She  was  earth's  God  —  so  did  she.  all  earth's  nations  sway  • 


LIFE. 


What  is  their  truth  ?  why  stood  they  not  ?  why  thus 

See  we  them  broken  like  the  stormy  sea  ? 
Ah,  they  dared  lift  themselves — 't  is  seen  by  us  — 

"Gainst  that  high  Power  that  can  alone  make  free, 

And  bless  man  with  exalted  liberty  ! 
Mind  was  all  there;  the  heart  too  in  its  power; 

And  these  went  forth  to  see  what  good  may  be  ; 
But  never  dream'd  they,  in  their  proudest  hour, 
God  would  that  earth  be  bless'd,  and  its  tears  stream  no  more  — 


And  hence  he  swept  them  from  earth's  face,  while  we, 
Going  as  pilgrims  to  their  tombs,  now  linger 

O'er  and  around  them;  —  tearful,  it  may  be, 
To  see  and  mark  where  Desolation's  finger 
Still  gives  them  to  decay.     And  Greece,  we  bring  her 

Oft  in  strange  beauty  back,  like  face  beloved  ;  — 
And  we  can  pour  our  songs  forth,  and  we  sing  her 

Beautiful  as  was  never  by  earth  proved, 
Or  hath  the  poet's  heart  with  liveliest  feelings  moved. 


LIFE.  31 


And  life's  ills  still  around  us,  are  no  more 
Things  that  assault  the  heart's  exalted  faith  — 

We  see  the  why  they  curse  the  earth  with  power ; 
Yet  we  see  too  —  for  so  High  Wisdom  saith  — 
Love  shall  prevail  yet  o'er  this  tide  of  wrath, 

And  make  it  rock  like  to  a  summer  sea, 

Laughing  in  beauty.     This  Word  a  might  hath, 

To  give  the  soul  of  earth  true  liberty, 
And  the  sublimer  peace  that  's  his  whom  Truth  makes  free. 


And  why  the  trials  pressing  us  to  earth  — 
Crushing  the  soul  oft  —  pouring  o'er  us  here 

The  maddest  waves  of  agony  —  sent  forth, 

So  it  would  seem,  to  see  how  God  could  wear 
Earth's  chains  into  the  soul  —  how  he  could  tear 

The  bleeding  spirit  dash'd  along  its  way ;  — 

Oft  are  the  loved  —  our  all  —  snatch'd  from  the  air 

And  the  bless'd  sun,  and  given  to  decay, 
While  we  go  on  accurs'd  —  ay,  palsied  as  are  they ! 


32  LIFE. 


O,  they  're  not  evil  !     Love  this  in  disguise, 

Purging  the  dross  off  gathering  round  the  soul, 
That  we  be  better  fitted  for  the  skies ; 

Ay,  to  sweep  far  away  without  control, 

While  shall  the  ages  after  ages  roll. 
But  life  is  not  all  stern  thus, —  trials  are, 

Far  less  than  these,  and  they  but  nerve  the  whole ; 
Give  to  the  spirit  greater  power  to  dare, 
And  to  press  on  to  heights  which  great  ones  only  share. 


This  earth's  sublimest  lesson  !  —  that  we  feel 
Oft  for  an  instant  earth's  power  o'er  the  heart, 

And  feel  an  instant  a  barb  keen  as  steel 
Pressing  into  its  tenderest,  quickest  part,  — 
That  we  may  then,  more  godlike,  forward  start 

To  rise  above  the  ills  we  have  —  so  be 
Higher  in  the  great  scale  of  being!     Art, 

Talent,  and  Grace,  and  the  high  majesty 
Of  Genius,  thus  take  on  more  force  and  feeling  free  ! 


LIFE.  33 


His  is  the  track  of  fame,  who  thus  has  learn'd 

To  look  around  him.     His  path  up  will  be  ! 
Powers  are  at  work  — the  which,  if  he  had  spurn'd, 

Had  only  crush'd  him  —  but  they  now  shall  free, 

Strengthen  unto  its  boldest  liberty 
Each  faculty  and  feeling  of  the  breast ; 

And  give  to  each  a  fiery  energy, 
Such  as  is  only  by  the  great  possess'd, 
And  which,  if  us'd  aright,  earth's  heart  hath  ever  bless'd. 


We  talk  of  Fame  oft,  as  it  were  a  light 

Only  sent  here  to  curse  !     It  curses  oft  — 
But  is  it  true  it  must  thus  ?     Is  its  might 

Only  a  thing  for  evil  ?     Look  aloft ! 

Some  souls  have  been,  and  they  sublime  have  proved 
Their  energies,  and  wing'd  the  upper  air; 

And  they  have  kept  pure  hearts,  and  they  have  loved 
All  in  the  earth  that  's  beautiful  and  fair, 
And  they  earth's  tears  and  sorrows  have  been  wont  to  share. 
3 


34  LIFE. 


We  slander  this  high  spirit,  deeming  her 
Then  evil.     That  is  in  us.     It  comes  forth 

From  the  warp'd  heart,  becomes  a  worshiper 
Of  a  mere  beauty  found  within  the  earth, 
When  the  soul  should  remember  her  high  birth, 

And  only  worship  Him  upon  the  throne  ! 

He  who  thus  watches,  seeks  a  name  of  worth, 

Yet  ever  in  His  sight,  and  ill  doth  shun  — 
He  is  not  curs'd,  though  Fame's  sublimest  steep  be  won. 


O,  that  we  might  thus  ever,  while  the  eye 

Marks  the  proud  summit  of  the  mount  of  fire, 
Still  keep  a  heart  of  low  humility, 

Lower  and  lower  as  the  eye  is  higher  ; 

Lower  and  lower  still,  as  the  desire 
Of  fame  grows  stronger  in  the  eager  heart; 

That  we  might  thus,  or  chanting  o'er  the  lyre, 
Or  plying  elsewhere  some  true,  noble  art. 
Keep  the  soul  still  near  Him,  nor  let  it  once  depart ! 


LIFE.  35 


We  deem  He  bids  the  soul  of  man  aspire 

Ever,  e'en  while  wall'd  round  here  in  its  clay  ; 
Yes,  e'en  to  set  the  goal  of  life  still  higher, 

And  win  a  name  'mid  things  that  with  life's  day 

Perish,  and  are  for  ever  in  decay. 
The  soul  itself  gains  vigor,  though  we  see 

The  what  it  sought,  and  won  too,  pass  away; 
It  shall  its  higher  bent  keep  when  all  free, 
And  on  some  other  height  its  path  of  love  may  be. 


Why  not  for  ever  keep  it  in  our  thought, 
We  should  thus  fit  us  ?     Would  not  this  then  come 

Into  the  soul  —  and  some  new  strength  be  caught  — 
With  all  the  other  powers  to  bring  man  home 
Safely  at  last,  and  save  him  from  the  doom 

He  often  seems  to  seek  with  his  whole  might  ? 
Would  we  so  oft  plunge  into  guilt  and  gloom, 

Did  we  but  keep  it  with  us  day  and  night, 
Here  we  but  fit  the  soul  for  an  immortal  Sight  ? 


36 


LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 


OUR  poets  sing  of  other  days, 

Of  other  lands  and  sons  of  fame, 
And  beautifully  too,  they  praise 

That  sweetest  feeling  earth  may  claim  — 
The  love  that  binds  two  hearts  in  one, 
And  gives  the  sweetest  bliss  that  's  known  - 
The  charm  that  seems  to  rob  the  earth 

Of  every  thing  that  's  sad  or  stern, 
And  make  the  world  a  world  of  mirth, 

And  each  heart  with  its  beauty  burn. 

Yet  have  we  not  for  this  our  land, 
Nor  for  its  charms  a  feeling  sweet, 


LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.  37 

That  doth  the  poet's  verse  command, 

Or  give  his  heart  a  livelier  beat; 
We  spurn  the  beauties  round  us  here, 

We  spurn  the  tales  she  hath  for  fame, 
And  turning  from  the  lovelier, 

Let  others  wake  the  poet's  flame. 

The  lovelier!  —  ah,  tell  us  now, 

If  fairer  lands  there  be  than  ours  ? 
Or  those  that,  should  the  poet  know, 

Or  wake  the  spirit's  loftier  powers? 
Are  there  sublimer  hills  than  these, 

That  fling  their  proud  tops  to  the  sun  ? 
Whispers  elsewhere  a  sweeter  breeze, 

Than  doth  among  our  forests  run  ? 
Or  can  you  find  a  prouder  flow 

Elsewhere,  of  cataract  and  river  — 
Niagara  with  its  golden  bow, 

And  its  loud  thunder  roaring  ever? 
Or  can  ye  gaze  on  waves  that  play, 

Brighter  or  fairer  than  have  we, 
Where  flash  our  broad  lakes  to  the  day, 

Or  rock  to  all  heaven's  breezes  free  ? 


38  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

And  where  stand  you  on  prouder  shores, 

And  look  afar  o'er  ocean  vast, 
And  mark  a  prouder  flood,  that  pours 

Beneath  you  with  each  furious  blast? 
Or  where  look  you  on  soft  seas,  kiss'd 

By  softer  breezes  than  come  o'er 
The  waves  of  gold  and  amethyst, 

To  cool  the  sweet  leaves  on  the  shore  ; 
And  lose  themselves  in  bowers  of  bloom, 

Robbing  the  fragrant  odors  there, 

Till  sky  and  earth  are  all  perfume, 
/ 

And  burden'd  is  the  quiet  air  ? 

Ah,  ye  may  fly  to  sunny  France, 

And  sing  her  vales  and  viny  hills, 
And  ye  may  tell  how  softly  dance 

The  waters  of  Italian  rills  ; 
And  ye  may  pass  the  "  Golden  Horn," 

And  lose  yourself  in  Asian  bowers, 
And  tell  us  where,  on  soft  winds  borne, 

There  nothing  is  but  sweets  of  flowers  ; 
Or  ye  may,  with  a  master  hand, 

Fly  to  lone  Isles  in  farthest  seas, 
And  tell  us  of  the  breezes  bland, 

That  come  up  from  the  sea  o'er  these; 


LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

And  tell  us  there  of  blushing  hills, 

And  tell  of  golden  bowers  and  groves, 
And  sing  of  gushing  founts  and  rills, 

And  all  a  poet's  fancy  loves ; 
And  spreading  lakes,  and  Eden  shores, 

And  skies  of  light,  and  birds  of  song, 
From  whose  wild  throats  of  music  pours 

A  flood  of  sweetness  all  day  long  ;  — •-  • 
Yet  shall  we  come  in  fancy  here  — 

Still  say  our  own  land  boasts  a  light 
As  beautiful  —  and  heavens  as  clear  — 

And  spreading  scenes  as  gay  and  bright ; 
And  offers  all  the  bard  requires, 

To  wake  his  heart  with  wildest  thrill, 
And  stir  up  Poesy's  sweet  fires, 

And  every  sense  with  music  fill. 

A  little  lay  have  we  to  sing, 

A  simple  tale  of  love  and  pain  } 
A  Hope  with  sweetest  blossoming, 

Yet  where  did  never  fruit  remain ; 
At  least  no  fruit  but  such  as  gives 

A  sense  like  ashes  to  the  taste, 
Where  joy  a  single  instant  lives, 

Only  to  bring  a  deeper  waste. 


-  * 

40  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

There  is  in  the  sweet  vale  where  I 

First  saw  the  light  —  or  near  to  this  — 
A  proud  old  hill  that  rises  high, 

In  which  a  strange  rough  rock  there  is ;  — 
A  grove  of  beauty  spreads  around, 

There  sings  the  bird  the  long  day  through, 
And  wood-flowers  start  o'er  all  the  ground, 

Drunk  with  the  moisture  and  the  dew;  — 
The  forest  throws  its  proudest  arms 

Over  the  place,  up-towering  high ; 
And  down  there,  scarce  the  power  of  storms, 

Coming  with  its  fierce  energy, 
Can  sweep  the  grass  and  gay  wood-flowers, 
That  deck  the  turf  like  Eden's  bowers. 
This  same  rough  rock  towers  up  one  side, 

Within  this  place — a  sheer  bare  cliff 
Looks  down  a  hundred  feet  in  pride  — 

Perhaps  there  's  less  of  it  —  yet  if 
You  shall  come  to  the  grove,  and  look 

From  off  that  precipice,  the  eye 
Will  scarce  a  single  instant  brook 
,  Its  wild  and  dark  vacuity. 
Yet  is  the  rock's  proud  top  a  place, 

Where  one  would  love  to  sit  and  muse ; 


„ 

LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.  41 

For  over  you  and  round  with  grace, 

The  forest  is  with  charms  profuse ;  — 
Up  the  proud  trunks  the  vines  have  run, 

And  gaudiest  flowers  start  out  from  these, 
And  mosses  brighter  than  the  sun, 

Circle  the  rocks  and  rooted  trees ;  — 
And  to  that  place,  from  distance  borne, 

A  mimic  catsiract  is  heard, 

Mingling  its  voice  with  note  of  bird, 
From  day  till  eve,  from  eve  till  morn. 

When  had  the  valley  scarcely  been 

Snatch'd  from  the  red  men  —  masters  here  — 
And  came  the  first  pale  crowd  of  men 

Into  the  wilderness  then  drear ; 
The  pastor  of  that  rough  stern  flock, 

A  little  flower  brought  with  him  mild  — 
One  that  might-  never  bear  life's  shock, 

A  flower  indeed  in  a  strange  wild ; 
A  daughter  this  —  from  lands  afar 

She  had  come  to  ,this  Western  scene ; 
That  father's  single  earthly  star  — 

It  ever  made  his  sky  serene.; 


42  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

It  shone  in  beauty  like  the  light 

That  streams  fresh  from  the  morning  bright. 

To  this  still  place  among  the  hills 

The  early  race  did  oft  retire  — 
Where,  awed  by  every  thing  that  fills 

The  heart,  and  brings  its  purest  fire, 
In  the  sweet  solitude  —  they  knelt 

Before  the  God  that  brought  them  o'er 
The  heaving  seas — and  there  they  felt 

His  Spirit  come  with  double  power ; 
For  back  they  could  turn  into  life, 
The  better  fitted  for  its  strife. 

It  chanc'd  this  little  flower  —  the  daughter, 

Soon  learn'd  to  love  this  solitude; 
And  oft  she,  woo'd  by  wind  and  water, 

Would  turn  aside  into  the  wood ; 
And  there  long  hours  of  sweetness  pass, 
In  that  sweet  solitude  —  that  was. 
Soon  learn'd  she,  with  a  new  delight, 

To  love  all  there  that  Nature  hath ; 
The  spreading  vale,  the  mountain  height, 

The  summer  sky,  and  e'en  its  wrath ; 


LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.  43 

(For  oft  she  loved  on  this  high  earth 

To  mark  the  storm-cloud  rushing  forth.) 

But  most  she  loved  the  sweet  flowers  round  her, 

And  green  leaves  of  that  holy  wood  ; 
Till  every  holy  feeling  bound  her, 

That  charms  the  heart  in  solitude. 

•i 

We  know  not  how  it  chanc'd  —  but  there, 

As  evening  shot  into  the  place, 
An  Indian  boy  gazed  ,on  that  fair, 

Sweet  creature  in  her  childish  grace ;  — 
A  child  of  that  stern  stock  that  late 

Had  call'd  these  lordly  hills  its  own  ; 
And  there  was  something  nobly  great, 

In  that  proud  form  and  eye  that  shone! 
How  long  he  gazed  we  may  not  say, 

How  oft  he  came  at  that  still  hour, 
To  see  again  that  hallow'd  Kay 

Of  light,  that  seem'd  t'  have  come  with  power; 
A  light  he  never  saw  before, 
A  light  that  deck'd  the  heavens  o'er ; 
A  light  that  made  the  fair  earth  smile, 
Which  else  had  been  but  dark  the  while; 


44  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

A  light  that  gave  to  every  thing, 

Sky,  wind,  and  cloud  —  and  day,  and  night- 
A  glory  like  the  waking  Spring, 

'Neath  which  he  wander'd  with  delight ! 
Yet  this  we  know,  that  forest  child  — 

The  last  proud  e;igle  of  his  rock  — 
Loved  no  more  the  rude  warfare  wild, 

That  is  the  glory  of  his  stock : 
He  loved  the  solitude,  alone, 

He  loved  the  mountain-side  —  its  thought  ; 
And  oft  alone,  he  made  his  moan, 

In  the  new  language  Love  had  taught: 
Yet  shrunk  he  from  the  gaze  of  men, 

And  shrunk  he  from  the  light  of  day  ; 
And  the  rude  Indians  look'd  with  pain, 

To  see  his  proud  form  waste  away : 
That  he,  the  glory  of  their  band  — 

The  eaglet  left  of  their  dead  sire  — 
Should  pass  thus  to  the  spirit's  land  ; 

The  Indian  Prophets  would  retire 
To  the  old  groves  and  prophesy 
The  whole  of -their  proud  race  must  die: 
For  He,  the  Genius  of  their  race, 
Was  wroth  with  them  —  and  hid  his  face. 


LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK.  45 

The  youth  was  miss'd  —  the  tribe  were  gone  — 

That  lovely  pale-faced  maiden  too, 
She  had  been  snatch'd  from  heaven's  sun  — 

A  horror  pass'd  the  valley  through  ; 
And  scarce  the  white  man  dared  to  say, 
How  had  the  maiden  pass'd  away. 
It  chanc'd,  as  Summer  pass'd  afar  — 

Autumn  had  come  and  gone  —  and  o'er 
The  world  had  Winter  driven  his  car, 

And  came  the  pleasant  Spring  once  more  ; 
And  melted  off  among  the  hills 

The  hills  of  snow  the  storm  piled  there, 
And  shouted  loud  the  swollen  rills, 

Rushing  forth  to  the  balmy  air ; 
Some  white  men  —  hunters  —  passing  by 

This  rock's  base  in  the  solitude, 
And  casting  there  a  careless  eye, 

As  streamed  the  light  into  the  wood  — 
Lo  !   at  that  base,  locked  heart  to  heart, 

The  Indian  boy  and  maiden  lay  ;  — 
Life  did  not,  nor  could  cold  Death  part 

Hearts  that  seem'd  made  for  each,  for  aye :  — 
And  there,  and  cold  and  stiff,  'mid  blooms 

Just  coming  once  more  to  the  earth, 


46  LEGEND  OF  BETHEL  ROCK. 

And  young  flowers  wasting  first  perfumes 

On  merry  breezes  traveling  forth, 
They  were,  —  the  white  men  turned  away, 
They  scarce  could  gaze  upon  their  clay. 

•* .     i  ' 

It  is  supposed  they  met  and  loved  — 
Loved  with  that  life  young  hearts  may  know 

And  as  their  union  would  have  proved 
A  bliss  to  none  but  only  woe  — 

A  brief  bliss-hour  they  had  and  cherish'd, 

And  then  together  thus  had  perish'd. 

Who  wanders  there  amid  the  wood, 

Led  by  the  simple  story  there, 
Will  find  within  the  solitude, 

A  small  white  heap  of  stones,  —  the  air, 
They  say,  at  eve  oft  hears  a  moan, 
As  of  the  youthful  spirits  gone. 


47 


REPROOF. 


WHV  should  we  be  for  ever  drooping,  sighing, 

When  so  much  round  us  is  to  make  us  wise  ? 
We  cannot  look  upon  an  insect  dying, 

We  cannot  look  on  the  eternal  skies  — 
We  cannot  look  abroad  upon  "  boon  Nature," 

Nor  hear  a  voice  loud  ringing  from  her  soul, 
But  there  is  that  to  teach  the  immortal  creature 

Some  mighty  truths  that  ever  should  control. 

And  yet  we  go,  one  race  upon  another, 
Drooping  and  sighing  all  along  our  way ; 

No  one  dares  call  his  neighbour  friend  and  brother, 
Nor  lets  such  feeling  in  his  bosom  sway ; 


48  REPROOF. 

%. 
Wrapping  himself  in  selfishness  and  sorrow, 

Seeking  his  own  nor  caring  for  aught  more, 
So  waits  each  soul  the  light  of  each  to-morrow, 
While  traveling  here  along  this  wondrous  shore. 

O,  is  such  lesson  taught  us  in  this  being  — 

Comes  it  from  earth,  or  th'  all-embracing  skies  ? 
Who  looks  abroad  and  finds  this  in  his  seeing  ? 

Who  hears  it  where  earth's  mighty  heart  replies  ? 
Is  it  the  voice  of  ocean  surging,  rushing  ? 

Is  it  the  voice  of  mighty  waves  that  roar? 
Comes  it  from  sweet  brooks  holy  valleys  brushing : 

Breathes  it  where  vernal  groves  their  pa?ans  pour  : 


Comes  it  from  the  great  souls  of  ancient  ages  — 

The  mighty  ones — the  infinite  in  heart; 
The  far-eyed  seers — heroic  bards  and  sages  — 

Who  for  their  age  have  felt  and  done  their  part  ? 
Comes  it  from  the  pure  word,  God  given  and  holy, 

Placed  in  each  hand,  by  every  humble  hearth, 
To  stay  the  soul,  when  crushed  by  guilt  or  folly, 

And  cheer  the  drooping  spirit  of  the  earth  ? 


REPROOF.  49 

O  no,  O  no,  —  then  let  us  no  more  wonder 

At  the  strange  mysteries  that  round  us  crowd, 
But  hear  the  voice  loud  echoing  like  deep  thunder, 

And  sounding  on  from  age  to  age  so  loud ; 
Hear  it,  wherever  we  may  be,  life  giving, 

Gain  courage,  and  still  hoping  press  along  ; 
From  holy  earth,  from  holy  heaven  receiving 

The  voice  of  Wisdom  and  the  tide  of  song  ! 


50 


A    VISION    OF    WAR. 


I  HAD  a  vision.     There  did  come  to  me 
A  thing  for  which  I  could  not  fix  a  name, 
So  dark,  so  wild,  so  awfully  terrible, 
Its  presence  made  me  shiver,  and  the  tide 
Which  beat  about  the  arteries  of  my  heart, 
Curdle  with  horror.     'T  was  a  field  of  blood ! 
A  battle-field,  where  Carnage  rioted ! 
And  War  went  thundering  on  his  iron  car, 
Grinding  its  damning  wheels  on  bones,  and  skulls, 
And  corses  gashed,  —  the  red  wounds  spouting  yet 
The  heart's  blood  freshly,  and  the  upturn'd  eye 
Quivering  beneath  the  vengeance  ! 


A    VISION    OF    WAR.  51 

There  was  one, 

Straight  as  the  ash,  and  sturdy  as  the  rocks 
Of  his  own  native  Macedon,  and  he 
Did  seem  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  world, 
Till,  gathering  in  one  mighty  clutch  her  kings 
And  emperors,  he  dashed  them  into  dust 
Like  to  another  Jupiter,  then  planted 
His  own  unlorded  foot  upon  their  necks, 
And  wept  for  more  to  murder !  —  He  pass'd  on. 

Another  came  —  with  aspect  less  sublime, 
Yet  nobler  far.     The  regal  diadem 
Sat  him  most  kinglily  ;  and  there  was  that 
Of  majesty,  and  grandeur,  and  high  thought^ 
In  the  deep  fulness  of  his  steady  gaze, 
That,  wheresoe'er  he  turned  him,  that  proud  look 
Did  make  the  nations,  tremble  !  —  He  pass'd  on. 

Then  presently,  another  came  in  viewj 
A  unity  of  both  ;  his  sable  front 
Black  as  the  scowl  of  Night,  and,  'neath  his  brows, 
Shaggy  and  knit  and  fierce,  shot  forth  the  soul 
Whose  glare  was  terrible.     I  saw  him  walk 
The  ocean  like  a  god,  and  when  he  set 


A    VISION    OF    WAR. 

His  armies  on  the  shores  of  Italy, 

The  land  shook  to  receive  him.     He  strode  on, 

As  if  the  earth  were  his,  and  he  a  thing 

Superior  to  the  elements.     The  storms, 

Elanced  by  the  Almighty  on  his  breast, 

He  seem'd  to  take  up  and  hurl  back  again, 

Daring  their  worst.     He  laid  his  hand  upon 

The  icy  regions  of  eternal  frost  — 

The  old  and  mighty  barriers  of  Nature,     ' 

And  like  a  bawble  in  an  infant's  hand, 

They  crumbled  and  let  him  pass  them!  —  He  pass'd  on. 

Then  saw  I,  at  a  glance,  the  three  move  on 
To  fight  and  victory.    Where'er  they  came, 
Their  pathways  were  block'd  up  with  dead  men's  skulls, 
And  bones,  and  rotting  carcasses,  and  all 
The  hell  of  warfare  !     Villages  sent  up, 
'Mid  smoke  and  flarne,  the  shrieks  of  famish'd  ones, 
"Urged  by  constraint  of  hunger  "  to  feed  on 
The  fruit  of  their  own  loins  —  their  children  murd'ring, 
Sucking  their  blood  for  life  ;  and  virgins  too, 
Tender  and  delicate  as  the  first-blown  flower, 
That,  violated  'neath  th'  unblushing  front 
Of  new-born  heaven,  were  left  spoiled,  blasted,  cursed, 


A    VISION    OF    WAR.  53 

Useless  as  weeds,  or  wrecks,  on  barren  coasts, 

Tossed  up  by  ocean  !     Hospitals  and  dwellings 

Choked  to  their  gates  with  dead  and  dying  men, 

From  whom  sent  up,  were  heard  the  fiendish  yells, 

And  execrations  of  hell-stricken  souls, 

Dying  unshrived  and  unaneled  !     Vast  rivers 

Ran  blood,  —  ay,  all  their  waves  were  clotted  o'er, 

As  if  their  sources  Were  some  mighty  heart 

Gashed,  to  its  death  !     Huge  ships  went  'down  on  tire, 

Belching  their  thunders  !    all  incarnadine 

Were  land  and  sea,  till  Desolation  sat 

The  mistress  of  the  world  !     Then  heard  I  there, 

A  voice  more  fearful  than  ten  thousand  thunders, 

Calling  to  Judgment !    the  tall  hills  were  bowed, 

And  ran  in  fire,  the  infinite  hosts  of  heaven 

Were  out  of  place,  and  the  dread  sentence  ran, 

That  "  time  shall  be  no  more  "  ! 

The  sound  awoke  me  — 
Trembling,  and  pale,  and  icy,  as  the  hand 
Of  Death  were  on  me,  and  while  gushed  the  tears 
Of  thankfulness,  I  bowed  me  in  the  dust, 
And  poured  unto  high  Heaven  my  solemn  prayer, 
That  it  was  —  but  a  dream. 


54 


MORNING. 


HE  lias  no  heart,  who  on  a  morn  like  this 

\V~akes  not  in  glory  with  the  glorious  scene  ; 
He  does  not  know  the  luxury  of  bliss, 

Nor  where  its  source  is  found,  nor  where  has  been  ;  — 
He  walks  along  the  baser  paths  of  life  — 

He  drinks  from  streams  that  let  him  thirst  again ; 
He  gains  no  strength,  to  grapple  with  the  strife, 

Nor  strong  endurance  for  its  fiery  pain. 

The  sun  goes^up  the  eastern  sky  in  glory, 

And  flings  abroad  a  flood  of  fairy  flame  ; 
The  earth  seems  deck'd  like  earth  in  fairy  story, 

And  every  thing  has  beauty  none  can  name ; 


MORNING.  55 

Along  the  mountains  runs  the  eye  in  wonder, 
Aloug  the  forests,  and  the  valley  bright  — 

Where  the  dark  floods  are  sweeping  on  in  thunder, 
And  the  sweet  hrooks  are  laughing  in  the  light. 

And  what  a  voice  of  sweetness  earth  is  waking, 

On  every  side  of  us — a  burst  of  song  I 
As  the  full  soul  of  Melody  were  breaking, 

And  its  glad  notes  commingled,  pour'd  along ;. 
From  the  far  forest,  from  the  copsewood  dingle, 

From  every  grove,  each  stream  bank,  and  smooth'd  lea ; 
From  each,  from  all,  the  notes  come,  and  then  mingle 

In  all  the  soul  has  dreamed  of  harmony. 

E'en  the  full  heart  of  earth's  Intelligence, 

'T  would  seem  were  flooded  with  a  newer  joy ; 

The  storms  that  beat  the  spirit,  hurry  hence, 
And  comes  again  the  gladness  of  the  boy ; 

'T  would  seem  the  thorns  of  sorrow  could  not  press  us, 
'T  would  seem  afflictions  should  be  felt  no  more ; 

And  we  could  feel  that  earth  has  that  to  bless  us, 
-And  we  are  wandering  on  a-  flowery  shore. 


56  MORNING. 

'T  is  true  indeed,  the  earth  has  that  which  often 

Crushes  the  soul,  and  beats  it  to  the  ground ; 
And  nothing  seems  there  the  poor  heart  to  soften, 

From  the  broad  heavens  above,  or  aught  around ; 
We  go  abroad  upon  its  spreading  bosom, 

We  keep  the  open  ear  for  its  sweet  songs ; 
Yet  nothing  see  we  like  the  flower  in  blossom, 

And  nothing  hear  we  but  the  voice  of  wrongs. 

Yet  earth  has  that  to  fill  the  breast  with  gladness, 

She  often  comes  to  us  and  wondrous  seems  ; 
She  drives  afar  the  clouds  that  vex  to  madness, 

And  fills  the  soul  with  holiest,  happy  dreams ; 
We  then  can  feel  there  is  a  joy  in  being, 

We  love  the  world,  and  feel  it  loves  us  too ; 
And  we  go  on,  its  thousand  beauties  seeing, 

While  every  moment  gives  us  something  new. 

Like  this  glad  morn,  the  earth  puts  on  a  brightness 
The  heart  can  feel,  yet  words  can  scarce  express, 

When  the  heart  has  the  wildest  sense  of  lightness, 
And  the  soul  knows  the  fairy  world  can  bless; 


MORNING.  57 

And  we  cast  off  each  bitter  thought  of  sorrow, 
And  seem  to  gather  strength  still  to  go  on  — 

Our  hopes  all  brighter  for  a  bright  to-morrow, 
Our  spirits  sure  to  gaze  upon  the  sun. 

Thanks,  for  this  world  of  beauty  now  around  us, 

Thanks  for  its  light,  and  for  its  glorious  joy ; 
Thanks  for  the  freedom  from  the  chains  that  bound  us, 

Thanks  for  the  wild,  sweet  gladness  of  the  boy ; 
While  this  wild  pleasure  thrills  us  till  we  fear  it, 

And  e'en  oppress'd  the  heart  is  from  its  sway, 
Let  the  pure  thought  go  up  to  the  great  Spirit, 

And  thank  H,im  for  the  glories  of  the  day  ! 


58 


"  I   ROAM  THE  WORLD,"  &c. 

(WRITTEN     UNDER    THE     PRESSURE    OF     SEVERE     DISEASE.) 

I  ROAM  the  world  with  restless,  aching  bosom, 

I  look  around,  above,  beneath,  for  bliss, 
I  see  the  Spring  come  on,  I  mark  each  blossom, 

I  hear  the  loud  brooks  shouting  their  release  ; 
I  look  to  each  sweet  thing  that  Nature  proffers, 

I  pray  that  it  would  fill  this  deep  void  here, 
And  yet  there  nothing  is  that  Nature  offers, 

To  still  the  raging  soul,  or  wipe  the  tear. 

1  wander  far  away  in  cool  green  bowers, 

Where  the  thick  boughs  shut  out  the  sunny  day. 

The  sense  is  sicken'd  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
The  ear  is  almost  pain'd  by  waves  at  play  j 


"  I    ROAM    THE    WORLD,"    &C.  59 

For  there  the  fountain,  from  its  cool  cave  gushing, 
Comes  with  a  voice  of  music  to  the  light, 

And  down  the  mountain  to  the  valley  rushing, 

.'  „  / 

It  shouts  along  its  pathway  strangely  bright. 

There  the  cool  boughs  are  with  the  winds  in  motion, 

There  the  glad  birds  are  full  of  life  and  song, 
There  every  thing  is  to  inspire  devotion, 

To  give  the  poet's  heart,  the  prophet's  tongue  ; 
Who  could  believe  the  earth  so  full  of  beauty, 

Who  could  believe  great  Nature  thus  could  come, 
And  stir  the  thought  up  like  the  sense  of~duty, 

And  banish  from  the  soul  its  awful  gloom  ? 

I  roam  along  where  Ocean,  upward  throwing 

Into  the  light  his  sweet  waves  in  their  play, 
Gives  to  the  eye  a  thousand  colors  glowing  — 

Yea,  the  full  blaze  that  sparkles  in  the  day  ; 
There  the  light  waves  go  leaping  and  go  chasing 

After  each  other  with  a  voice  of  song, 
Or  to  the  voiceful  shore  those  same  waves  racing, 

Burst  on  the  rocks  in  a  tumultuous  throng. 


60  "  I    ROAM    THE    WORLD,"    &C. 

» 

Yet  here  they  come  up  over  gold  sands  lying 

Low  by  the  shore  and  underneath  green  boughs, 
Breathing  as  soft  and  sweet  as  lover  sighing, 

Filling  the  air  with  all  that  Music  knows  ; 
Cannot  the  music  here  the  sense  of  sorrow 

Banish  afar,  and  bring  life's  bliss  again  — 
And  whisper  sweetly  of  a  sweet  to-morrow, 

That  always  follows  on  a  present  pain  ? 

I  go  forth  too  when.  Eve  has  come  in  splendor, 

And  the  pale  moon  walks  through  the  clouds  of  night. 
And  thought  should  wake,  all  holy,  sweet,  and  tender, 

And  earth  should  wear  her  glory-garment  bright ; 
When  the  pale  stars  too  one  by  one  come  slowly 

Out  from  the  darkness,  take  their  places  high  — 
And  waken  thoughts  and  feelings  as  Heaven  holy, 

There  as  they  stream  in  wonder  on  the  eye. 

Morning  I  look  at  too  —  where  is  its  brightness  '•: 
Noon  in  its  blaze,  and  twilight's  tender  hours  ? 

Twilight^  when  hearts  should  have  the  sense  of  lightness-, 
And  the  soul  gather  back  its  wasted  powers! 


"I    ROAM    THE    WORLD,"    &C.  61 

I  turn  away  too  from  unconscious  Nature, 
To  where  the  eye  and  soul  of  Beauty  are, 

And  life  immortal  lights  up  form  and  feature, 
And  think  to  flnd  the  sense  of  pleasure  there. 

And  yet  I  find  it  not  —  o'er  earth  around  me  — 

Or  in  the  heart  that  fain  would  beat  to  mine  ; 
As  though  the  very  chains  of  Peath  had  bound  me, 

So  numb'd  each  sense  is  to  the  joy  divine  ; 
Thus,  though  the  world  may  shine  in  all  its  splendor, 

Spring  come-,  and  make  the  earth  laugh  from  its  bloom, 
I  have  no  heart  the  which  I  can  surrender, 

I  have  no  eye  but  such  as  seeks  the  tomb. 

O,  shall  it  ne'er  come  back,  that  sense  of  pleasure, 

That  for  so  many  years  hath  been  mine  own  ? 
Shall  the  heart  never  dance  to  music's  measure, 

From  the  sweet  light  and  beauty  round  me  thrown  ? 
Must  I  go  onward  in  the  life  before  me, 

And  never  be  again  as  I  have  been  — 
Spellbound,  how  oft,  by  Heaven's  sweet  skies  bent  o'er  me, 

Or  thrilled  with  rapture  from  earth's  glorious  sheen  ? 


62  "I    ROAM    THE    WORLD,"    &C. 

O,  I  will  hope  this  cloud  of  awful  sorrow 

Shall  pass  away  from  spirit  and  from  thought, 
And  yet  shall  be  the  beautiful  to-morrow, 

That  Hope  has  ever  from  the  future  caught ; 
I  will  believe  the  earth  shall  yet  recover 

The  glory  thpt  she  had  for  my  young  dream  ; 
That  heaven's  serenest  skies  shall  still  bend  over, 

And  Joy's  eternal  sunshine  round  me  stream  ! 


63 


LIFE'S     PROMPTINGS. 


LIFE  has  naught  in  it  that  should  wake  our  fears, 

Its  trials  are  its  blessings  —  he  who  can 
See  nothing  here  but  evil,  and  who  hears 

No  voice  of  wisdom  sounded  out  to  man 

From  these  fierce  trials ;  he  who  cannot  scan 
Each  trial  as  it  rise?,  and  see  there 

Something  should  rather  please  in  Heaven's  great  plan  - 
He  is  for  other  regions  than  that  air 
Wide  and  exalted,  which  earth's  "  wing'd  ones  "  only  dare. 

We  start  in  life  —  we  come  up  from  the  gloom 
Of  some  far,  previous  being,  vaguely  dream'd ; 

And  the  first  thought  is  that  the  soul  needs  room, 
It  cannot  stretch  itself —  and  it  has  seem'd 


64  LIFE'S    PROMPTINGS. 

As  if  it  saw  a  light,  that,  star-like,  stream'd 
On  to  a  higher  state  that  must  be  won. 

He  who  is  true  to  his  own  soul  —  has  deem'd 

The  soul's  course  was  right  onward  —  he  has  run 

The  race  most  giant-like,  and  a  great  work  has  done. 

He  has  laid  hold  of  trials  —  how  ?  as  he 

Who  sinks  beneath  them  ?  never  !  —  they  have  been 
Rather  his  best  supporters — and  we  see 

He  is  supported  by  them  through  the  scene  ; 

They  purge  his  eyesight  —  give  to  life  a  sheen 
Lent  from  the  far,  far  world  to  which  we  haste ; 

And  they  have  given  the  soul  a  grander  mien, 
And  prouder  looks  he  o'er  the  what  is  past, 
Then  turns  his  eye  right  onward  —  never  backward  cast. 

And  he  too  is  prepared  for  what  may  be 

Lovely  and  glorious  of  the  present  state ;  — 
The  grandeur  and  the  glory  we  all  see 

Round  us  in  Nature,  beautiful  or  great ; 

The  grandeur  that  we  see  too,  where,  elate, 
Some  kindred  soul  speaks  with  ours  as  we  go; 

And  grandeur  too  of  earth's  far,  ancient  date, 
As  its  great  souls  through  History  do  show  — 
These  come  with  power — give  heart  and  soul  a  nobler  glow. 


LIFE'S    PROMPTINGS.  65 

And  if  that  purest  passion  of  this  life, 

Love  !  holy,  heavenly,  beating  in  some  heart, 
Cometh  to  cheer  us  in  the  fiery  strife, 

And  of  our  own  high  souls  becomes  a  part, — 

An  element,  a  thing  that  wont  depart, 
But  clings  to  ours  with  an  immortal  power; 

O,  how  this  cheers  us  !  —  with  new  life  we  start 
On  in  the  race,  gain  courage  every  hour, 
And  only  laugh  at, clouds  that  may  around  us  lower! 

And  that  high  voice  that  comes-  to  us  from  all 

That 's  o'er  or  round  us,  beating  through  the  soul, 
This  the  soul  hears  too,  and  it  bursts  the  thrall 

Earth  would  bind  round  earth  —  doth  —  around  the  whole  ; 

And  loosen'd  from  this  last  and  worst  control, 
On  with  still  firmer  purpose  yet  we  strive  — 

Cheering  the  soul  with  visions,  while  doth  roll 
Through  the  high  heart  that  bliss  by  which  we  live, 
Yet  which  shall  Heaven  alone,  in  perfect  fulness,  give. 

O,  then  fear  not,  thou  bold  heart !  setting  forth 
In  the  great  race  of  time  the  great  have  run, 

But  gird  thyself  with  all  the  strength  that  earth 
Hath  for  each  genuine  and  immortal  son  ;  — 


66  LIFE'S    PROMPTINGS. 

Seize  each  assistant,  press  on,  till  is  won 
The  goal  at  which  all  noble  ones  do  aim ;  — 

And  fear  not  but  a  great  work  shall  be  done, — 
Fear  not  but  thou  shalt  win  a  glorious  name, 
Ay,  with  the  noblest  stand,  immortal,  crown'd  with  fame ! 


67 


THIS    COUNTRY    PRODIGAL    IN    THEMES    FOR 
POETRY. 

(PART  OP   A   LETTER   TO    A   FRIEND.)' 

ATHENE'S  thunders  shook  the  forum's  base, 
Athenae's  triumphs  shook  the  public  ways ; 

Athene's  glories  gave  her  name  a  place, 
And,  'mid  the  deathless  ones  of  ancient  days, 
Wrote  it  on  high  in  fire  !  —  there  yet  it  stays. 

Far  through  the  night  of  ages  we  behold 
The  distant  hill-tops  glittering  in  the  blaze, — 

The  floods  of  splendor  Poesy  has  roll'd 
Over  those  ancient  States  —  heart,  mind,  and  soul  controll'd  ! 

And  Poesy  's  a  dweller  in  this  land, 
"  Nurse  of  the  brave,  and  bulwark  of  the  free  "  ; 

Where  on  each  mountain-top  and  groaning  strand, 
God  hath  impress'd  the  seal  of  liberty ; 


68  THIS    COUNTRY    PRODIGAL 

O'er  which  there  bendeth  a  cerulean  sky, 
And  through  which,  gushing  from  a  thousand  springs, 

Vast  rivers  pour  their  tributes  to  the  sea ; 
Where  every  grove  with  wildest  music  rings, 
And  every  breeze  round  all  the  balmiest  fragrance  flings. 

We  have  no  temples  gray  and  worn  with  years, 

No  proud  fanes  crumbling  into  worthless  dust ; 
We  have  no  gorgeous  tombs,  on  which  appears 

The  warrior's  epitaph  encased  in  rust ; 

Where,  o'er  the  ashes  of  the  mighty  just, 
The  living  show  their  pride  and  littleness ; 

Nor  have  we  left  us  in  poetic  trust, 
Parnassian  steeps  and  grottos,  where  caress 
Nymphs,  Fays,  and  Fauns,  as  Seers  or  holiest  bards  express. 

Yet  have  we  mountains,  whose  proud  summits  throw 

The  sun's  reflection  back  upon  a  heaven 
As  blue,  and  where  as  brilliant  colors  glow, 

As  sainted  bards  to  Italy  have  given  ; 

And  we  have  rocks  by  storm  and  thunder  riven, 
That  tower  aloft  in  silent  majesty ; 

And  we  have  rivers  to  the  ocean  driven, 
And  we  have  cataracts,  that,  plunging  free, 
Onward  sublimely  swell,  and  thunder  to  the  sea. 


IN    THEMES    FOR    POETRY.  69 

And  we  have  forests,  where,  from  changing  skies, 

The  frowns  of  Winter,  or  the  smiles  of  Spring, 
Pierce  not  the  glooms,  —  yet  where,  of  loveliest  dyes, 

Throughout  the  year,  young  flowers  are  blossoming  ; 

Our  dells,  though  there  no  Nymph  be  listening, 
Are  hallow 'd  by  the  spirits  of  the  dead ; 

The  Indian  Warrior  there  with  bow  and  string, 
Faced  the  destructive  foe  with  manly  tread, 
And  like  a  hot-press'd  lion  fought,  and  like  a  lion  bled. 

Their  names  are  written  on  each  inch  of  ground, 
And  flash'd  in  light  from  every  torrent's  foam ; 

Their  deeds  are  echoed  by  the  winds  around, 
That  with  the  morning  and  the  evening  come  — 
They  say  we  tread  within  the  red  man's  home ;  — 

This  is  a  theme  to  stir  the  soul  of  song, 

Give  tongues  to  stocks,  and  fire  the  mountains  dumb; 

Yea,  and  the  land,  indignant  at  the  wrong, 
Should  catch  that  hymn  of  fire,  as  loud  it  pour'd  along  ! 

We  boast  bright  lakes,  that,  like  an  infant  press'd 

Within  its  nurse's  arms,  reposing  lie 
'Mid  mountains,  —  On  their  scarcely  rippling  breast, 

Small  snowy  cloudlets  dot  a  mimic  sky  ; 


70    THIS  COUNTRY  PRODIGAL  IN  THEMES  FOR  POETRY. 

Tall  crags  that  line  their  shores,  and  pois'd  on  high, 
Mark  their  dark  outlines  glass'd  upon  the  lake ; 

And  wild  birds  flit  above,  and  sweet  their  cry 
Is  echoed  to  their  nestlings  in  the  brake, 
Where  the  young  billows  dash,  and  lull  them  scarce  awake. 

And  having  these,  say,  are  we  dead  to  all 

That  from  the  noblest  of  man's  nature  springs  ? 

With  us,  hath  not  the  heart  its  festiv  al  — 
The  hour  of  bliss  Imagination  brings, 
When  like  that  heavenly  bird,  that,  soaring,  sings, 

And  sweeter  sings  till  hooded  in  the  sky, 
The  soul  borne  upward  on  seraphic  wings, 

Shouts  from  its  fulness  of  delight,  and  high 
From  world  to  world  soars  far  —  the  life  of  Poesy  ? 

O,  for  the  Spirit  of  the  ancient  day, 

Spirit  of  sweet  song,  to  come  o'er  the  main ; 
And  waken  mind,  and  bid  the  fancy  play, 

Till  we  shall  seem  to  hear,  and  loud,  again, 

The  very  music  of  the  ancient  strain ;  — 
Till  caught  the  beauty  and  the  grandeur  here 

Flash'xi  all  around  us,  erewhile  flash'd  in  vain, 
Mind  here  becomes  "mute  Nature's  worshiper," 
And  the  sweet  voice  of  song  rolls  round  the  glorious  year 


71. 


ENERGY    OF    THE    PAST    WORTHY    OF    IMITA 
TION. 

(AM     EXTRACT.) 

AND  yet  in  some  things  earth's  first  nations  were 

Models  fpr  us  —  they  had  great  energy ; 
This  they  put  forth  the  loftiest  heights  to  dare, 

And  those  they  reach'd ;  and  in  the  upper  sky, 

Staring  upon  the  sun  with  eagle  eye, 
They  did  maintain  them, —like  to  gods  they  seem'd ;  — 

We  wonder  at  their  might  and  majesty, 
We  wonder  at  the  light  that  from  them  stream'd, 
As  bright  as  is  some  sun,  of  which  has  fancy  dream'd  ! 

We  see  this,  if  we  wish  it, 'Standing  by 

Old  Nilus,  as  he  rolls  his  flood  along, 
In  the  great  pyramids  that  spike  the  sky;  — 

And  where  so  many  thousand  years,  among 


72  ENERGY    OF    THE    PAST 

The  mighty  rocks  and  ruins  that  still  throng 
Those  great  shores,  they  maintain  sublimest  state ;  — 

Go  to  the  pyramids  —  gaze  on  them  —  strong  ; 
Deem  that  the  soul  that  built  them  was  not  great, 
And  with  man's  highest,  mightiest  thoughts  was  not  elate  ? 

What  piled  those  rocks  into  the  upper  sky  ? 

Say,  't  was  man's  hand  ?  what  's  this  without  his  thought ; 
Something  that  comes  forth  in  the  energy, 

That  is  alone  by  man  from  Heaven  caught ; 

Something-  that  comes  to  earth,  and  with  power  fraught, 
Without  which  earth  were  lonely  as  a  tomb ; 

Yet  with  which  is  lit  up  the  loneliest  spot,  — 
With  which  is  laugh'd  off  every  cloud  of  gloom, 
Till  o''er  her  wide,  sweet  face,  there  is  for  grief  no  room  ? 

Heaven  hath  lit  up  the  world  -with  beauty  —  but 

Art  came  from  man's  hand  —  this  which  proves  his  birth  ; 
This  the  sublimest  finish  God  could  ,put 

To  his  whole  work  and  call  it  one  of  worth,  — 

To  give  the  curious1  intellect,  that  forth 
From  this  might  start  a  grace  we  never  see 

Elsewhere,  throughout  the  whole  wide  sweep  of  earth  ;  — 
Karth  is  all  beauty  —  wondrous  —  yet  have  we 
Given  from  man's  great  soul  express  Divinity. 


.;•*:• 


WORTHY    OF    IMITATION. 

And  turn  again  to  where  Greece  piles  on  high 
Her  temples  on  each  towering,  dizzy  steep ; 

Gives  out  there  genuine  grace  and  majesty, 
Till  we  do  wonder ;  and  we  almost  weep 
To  see  that  wondrous  grace  —  to  see  her  keep 

That  grace,  while  yet  her  soul  is  in  the  dust. 
O,  was  not  greatness  there  ?  did  it  not  sweep 

On  in  its  mighty  track,  as  if  it  must 
Approve  itself  to  earth  —  this  her  submitted  trust? 

Look  on  her  temples  —  how  they  smite  the  skies 

From  all  her  mountains  !     Trace  her  vales  along  ! 
What  are  these  glorious  piles  that  here  uprise  ? 

And  what  is  this  Divinity  among 

Scenes  where  already  Heaven,  in  beauty  young, 
Has  its  own  graces  exquisitely  fair  ? 

Go  to  each  grot  and. cave  —  they  have  a  tongue  ! 
The  wild,  mute  marble  is  yet  speaking  there, 
And  a  soul  comes  'from  these  as  great  as  it  is  rare. 

And  you  may  see  in  all  her  history, 

A  something  that  the  heart  feels  was  sublime;  — 
See  how  she  gather'd  as  each  year  went  by,4 

Noting  thus  gloriously  each  notch  of  time, 


»  *r»*. 

74  ENERGY    OF    THE    PAST 

All  the  great  subjects  of  her  wondrous  clime ; 
Gather'd  here  too,  the  great  world  to  look  on, 

Then  show'd  her  Art,  shouted  some  glorious  hymn, 
Pour'd  forth  her  eloquence  with  clarion  tone, 
And  taught  the  assembled  world  how  glory  might  be  won  ! 

And  Rome  too,  mastering  the  trembling  earth, 

Leaping,  a  thunderbolt,  out  from  her  height; 
Pouring  her  armies  like  a  sea  let  forth, 

'Gainst  nation  after  nation  in  great  might ; 

Arid  riding  o'er  them  with  a  fierce  delight, 
Or  chaining  them  and  dragging  them  her  slaves ;  — 

What  see  we  here  but  that  which  awes  the  sight, 
Ay,  like  the  wild  sweep  of  the  ocean's  waves, 
Or  the  vast  fires  of  Hell,  crush'd  from  earth's  deepest  caves ' 

And  e'en  old  priestly,  rotten  Rome  gives  forth 
Something  of  this  same  energy  and  grace ;  — 

We  praise  it  not  —  its  moral  —  a  dread  dearth 
It  brought,  wherever  it,  o'er  earth's  sweet  face, 
Went,  and  a  single  instant  could  find  place ;  — 

Still  there  was  something  in  the  power  of  Rome, 
Going  forth  thus  in  her  selected  race, 

Blinding  men's  eyes  and  dragging  them  to  doom, 
We  must  believe  did  first  from  the  high  Heavens  come. 


WORTHY    OF    IMITATION.  75 

But  might,  how  awfully  perverted  !  —  look 
At  the  vast  shadows  cast  forth  wide  and  far, 

When  she  had  clouded  the  eternal  book  ; 
And  with  the  cloud  so  placed,  went  forth  to  war 
On  all  light  — with  the  bolts  of  Hell  to  bar 

Man  from  approaching  the  eternal  shrine  ! 
Did  the  Great  Heavens  look  forth  upon  her  there, 

And  recognize  within  her  the  divine 
And  hallow'd  light  once  lent,  o'er  all  the  earth  to  shine  ( 

* 

This  giant  energy  of  minds  of  old, 

We  should  put  forth  with  our  sublimer  light.         , 
Not  that  we  be  like  Egypt,  warp'd,  controll'd 

By  a  mere  love  of  knowledge,  while  a  night 

Deeper  than  death  is  on  our  souls,  our  sight 
Blinded  to  what  is  truly  great  of  earth ;  — 

Nor  like  great  Greece  concentrate  all  our  might, 
That  we  reriown'd  in  Art  and  Grace  stand  forth, 
Or  like  old  Rome  in  War,  or  Rome  of  Priestly  worth  ; 

But  like  the  spirit,  feeling  its  own  might, 
That  up  and  onward  goes,  and  guards  within 

That  sense  of  truth  and  peace  where  all  is  light  ;  — 
Where  the  great  powers  of  Error,  Guilt,  and  Sin 


76  ENERGY    OF    THE    PAST 

Are  banish'd, —  and  the  stings  of  conscience  keen 
No  longer  lacerate  the  bleeding  breast ;  — 

And  God  looks  forth,  with  approbation  e'en, 
Upon  the  soul,  thus  upward,  onward  press'd 
By  the  great  might  of  Truth  that  hath  His  nature  bless'd. 

Why  have  we  thought,  and  mind,  and  soul,  and  sense, 

That  we  may  read  the  past  as  in  Heaven's  light ; 
Draw  forth  what  lessons  there  are  given  thence, 

Or  search  within  ourselves  to  learn  the  right ; 

And  learn  all  man  should  learn  and  keep  in  sight, 
Would  we  be  true  to  Him  that  made  the  soul? 

And  why  this  other  source  now  of  truth  bright, 
Placed  in  the  hands  of  each  without  control, 
And  which  Heaven  bids  us  read,  ay,  and  obey  the  whole  ? 

Had  God  an  object,  when  he  sprang  forth  this 
Lovely  and  wondrous  world  into  the  sun ; 

And  when  he  bade  each  star  sublime  that  is 
Sparkling  around  it,  rise  tip  and  roll  on ;  — 
When  over  all  the  earth  he  bade  them  run 

Its  living  verdure  —  digg'd  the  ocean  fortii ;  — 

Digg'd  out  the  rivers  too  —  and,  when  't  .was  done, 

Roll'd  the  wild  waters  through  them  in  mad  mirth, 
Till  their  large  voice  rings  round  th£  whole  rejoicing  earth? 


WORTHY    OF    IMITATION.  77 

And  when  he  had  the  forests  robed  in  green, 
Deck'd  forth  sweet  groves  of  harmony  and  love  ; 

And  then  that  he  might  grace  put  to  the  scene, 
Grace  that  should  plainly  seem  flung  from  above, 
Bade  man  come  forth,  upon  its  fair  face  move, 

Upon  it  walk  in  glory  and  in  pride ; 

Be  its  great  master,  all  its  beauties  prove, 

Walk  forth  from  north  to  south,  and  far  and  wide, 
And  be  with  wonder  fill'd  by  all  that  be  espied  ? 

And  last  of  all,  when  mind  had  darken'd  mind, 

Soul  ruin'd  soul,  and  all  was  night  indeed, 
Came  the  sure  Word  to  lighten  all  mankind  ;  — 

That  the  poor  human  heart  no  more  might  bleed 

Age  after  age,  and  cry  aloud  in  need, 
And  seek  its  thousand  vain  ways  to  be  bless'd  ? 

Heaven  had  its  object  —  may  it  ever  speed  — 
Till  the  whole  earth  shall,  irl  its  new  light  dress'd,- 
Sit  at  the  feet  of  Truth,  acknowledg'd  and  confess'd  ! 


..-..* 


78 


SONNETS. 


SPIRITUAL     LIFE. 


'T  is  hard  to  walk  abroad  upon  the  earth, 

And  keep  our  faith  sublime  in  erring  man ; 
He  has  so  little  of  his  Father's  worth, 

His  end  would  seem  but  nothingness  and  vain  ;  — 
See  how  he  crouches  to  become  the  slave 

Of  foul  old  errors  that  exploded  are, 
And  see  how  ready  too,  yea,  proud  and  brave 

To  bolster  up  what  none  but  devils  dare  ;  — 
Should  not  the  stock  that  raises  the  great  tree 

Full  to  the  Heavens,  and  bids  its  blossoms  forth  — 
Thoughts  all  eternal  —  other  than  this  be, 

Pleased  with  base  follies,  rioting  in  mirth ; 
Deeming  life  only  as  a  holiday  — 
As  if  to  laugh  and  sleep  were  all  man  may  ? 


u/» 


SONNETS.  79 


He  has  the  true  Divinity  within, 

Whose  thought  is  ever  upward  —  he  alone,  — 
Who  scorns  the  toil  and  sweat  for  life  unclean, 

When  we  may  rise  unto  the  higher  one  ;  — 
The  purer  path  is  not  of  some  lone  star, 

"  Far  in  the  blue  untended  and  alone," 
Which  our  fond  souls  may  gaze  upon  afar, 

And  ever  sigh,  but  never  reach  the  sun  ;  — 
No,  there  is  to  each  soul  immortal  wings 

Given,  yet  lock'd  close  —  by  what?  our  iron  will, — 
We  will  to  toil  amid  the  perishable  things, 

And  fret  away  a  life  amid  the  ill ; 
(J,  that  we  would  unclose  them  while  we  may, 
And  like  the  eagle  soar  into  the  day! 


How  much  there  is  if  we  would  seek  to  rise, 
To  help  us  upward,  given  to  us  here  ! 

First,  we  may  see  the  beauty  of  the  skies, 
For  all  is  writ  imperishably  clear ;  — 

Love  hath  come  down,  and  with  a  pen  of  fire 
All  that  bright  city  and  its  streets  hath  drawn  — 


80  SONNETS. 

And  musical  as  is  an  angel's  lyre 

So  is  the  sweetness  as  that  love  sings  on ;  — 
All  that  could  catch  the  eye  and  fire  the  soul 

Is  fully  given,  and  we  bid  to  set  forth  — 
And  every  thing  that  should  the  heart  control, 

All  is  array'd  to  cheer  us  through  the  earth  ; 
Yes,  how  much  is  there  in  the  world  to  make 
The  soul  look  up  and  struggle  for  truth's  sake  ! 


And  the  sweet  counterpart  of  love  is  writ 

Round  on  material  things,  —  look  !  where  it  gleams 
In  every  star  that  Love  eternal  lit, 

See  it  around  us  in  the  woods  and  streams  ! 
What  is  the  beauty  rushing  on  th«  eye, 

Whether  we  look  abroad  at  early  dawn, 
Or  whether  we  would  gaze  upon  the  sky 

When  the  clouds  have  come  down  and  night  comes  on  • 
Or  whether  we  in  the  meridian  day 

Look  up  or  round  us  at  the  flashing  scene, 
And  catch  the  light  of  every  holy  ray 

Upon  the  mountains  or  the  forests  green, — 
What  is  it  but  the  beauty  that  we  see, 
Where  Truth  speaks  in  the  Word  imploringly  ? 


SONNETS.  SI 


And  what  a  voice  of  love  great  Nature  hath, 

Yes,  in  her  softer  or  sublimer  scenes  — 
The  ocean  howling  to  the  storm  in  wrath, 

Or  the  low  whispering  fount  the  old  oak  screens ! 
The  forest  shouting  to  the  sobbing  wind, 

Or  the  low  reeds  that  line  the  margent  green 
Of  some  gay  golden  brook  sweet  osiers  bind, 

Or  bright  groves  shelter  as  it  pours  between ; 
The  shout  of  birds  at  early  morning  sent, 

Voices  of  breezes  in  the  solemn  wdod, 
Or  rustling  leaf,  like  fairy  instrument, 

Trembling  to  song  through  all  the  solitude ; 
All  are  but  voices  of  that  mighty  Power, 
That  would  the  dead  to  life  again  restore  ! 


82 


SONNETS. 


THE       SEASONS. 


THE  Spring  in  beauty  lies  upon  the  earth  — 

The  Winter  's  gone  —  the  blades  and  leaves  and  flower* 
Start  to  the  sight  beneath  the  sun  and  showers,- 

And  now  they  spread  abroad  in  all  their  worth  ;  — 

Hark,  to  the  music  of  the  grove  and  wood  — 

Hark,  to  the  breeze  —  and  hark,  the  housing  bee! 

And  the  brook  too,  that  in  a  merry  mood 

Starts  from  the  mount  or  cave  all  shouting  free ! 

Shall  not  the  heart  wake  in  a  scene  like  this, 
The  eye  look  up  with  joy  and  look  around, 

And  the  soul  draw  forth  an  exalted  bliss, 
As  from  the  joyous  notes  and  smiling  ground  ? 

Yes,  be  not  we,  the  immortal,  backward,  when 

Such  joyous  life  rings  wild  from  grove  and  glen  ! 


SONNETS. 


The  Summer  comes  in  matron  beauty  glowing, 

Lo,  how  she  queens  it  over  sky  and  earth  — 
Her  thousand  beauties  on  the  gaze  bestowing, 

Her  spiritual  thoughts  too  bidding  into  birth ! 
Not  all  of  joy  the  thought  should  be  when  Natuiu 

Offers  herself  unto  the  immortal  eye, 
But  the  high,  spiritual  soul  in-  each  sweet  feature 

Should  something  see  to  give  it  majesty,  — 
See  there  is.  something,  as  the  months  move  on, 

Dressing  the  earth  with  beauty  and  the  sky, 
Till  from  them  all  an  energy  is  won, 

Giving  the  soul  more  grace  and  purity, 
Fitting  it  better  to  go  on  its  way, 
Humble  and  true — t'  endure,  or  fight,  or  pray. 


I  shall  not  ask  for  poesy  from  thee, 

Sad,  yet  soul-stirring  Autumn  —  for  it  comes^ 
Flooding  the  very  spirit  from  thy  glooms, 
Waking  the  thoughts  and  pouring  them  forth  free 
See  the  wild  glories  on  the  mountain-side, 
See  in  the  valleys,  by  the  thousand  streams ; 
Lo,  how  it  comes  too  from  the  faded  beams 


84  SONNETS. 

That  stream  down  from  the  sky  —  no  more  of  pride ! 
Hark,  to  the  pensive  music  of  the  wind, 

Hark  the  sad  note  from  yon  black,  faded  bougli ; 
How  it  comes  o'er  the  melancholy  mind, 

And  what  a  flood  of  softness  wakes  it  now ! 
He  is  no  poet  who,  when  Autumn  comes, 
Feels  not  a  full  heart  'mid  its  damps  and  glooms. 

IV. 

Winter  is  here  —  a  single  note  for  him  — 

Yet  not  of  gloom — behold,  his  brow  is  light  — 
Ay,  as  the  robe  of  fire-rapt  Seraphim 

Before  the  throne  intolerably  bright ! 
There  ?s  music  in  the  hoarse  voice  of  th£  wood, 

And  in  the  swollen  and  crowded  floods  that  roll, 
And  o'er  the  wide  and  open  solitude 

Voices  are  heard  that  press  upon  the  soul  ;  — 
The  clouds  that  fill  the  sky  —  the  snows  that  drive 

Fierce  by  our  doors,  or  louder  o'er  the  plain  — 
From  each,  from  all,  the  quick  heart  doth  receive 

A  thrill  of  pleasure  that  would  mock  at  pain ;  — 
Come  then,  old  Winter,  bring  us  pleasure  here, 
We  '11  bind  a  wreath  for  thee,  cold,  hated,  drear. 


85 


A     MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

"  Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patinea  of  bright  gold  ; 
There's  not  the  smallest. orb  which  thou  behold'cit, 
But  in  its  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubim." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

.SILENCE  and  night,  it  is  the  time  for  thought, 
And  the  lone  dreamer  sends  his  weary  eye, 
Out  from  the  casement,  up  to  the  dim  stars, 
And  deems  that  from  those  rolling  worlds  comes  to.  him 
A  cheering  voice.     How  beautiful  they  are  — 
Those  sparkling  fires  in  that  eternal  void  ! 
They  seem  like  jewels  on  the  crown  of  Him, 
The  Lord  !  the  Crucified  !     They  do  hang  there, 
Bright,  as  when  bursting  o'er  this  lower  world 


86  A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

Then  heaving  intp  beauty  —  the  fair  lands, 
Valleys  and  hills  —  the  streams,  the  lakes,  the  seas, 
With  their  blue  depths  —  the  ocean,  with  its  waves 
Restless  for  ever,  —  as  when  these  burst  forth, 
And  over  them  God  spread  this  canopy 
Of  grandeur  and  of  glory  !     There  they  hang  — 
Emblems  of  His  great  hand  who  placed  them  there, 
And  bade  them  roll  to  one  eternal  hymn 
Of  heavenly  harmony  !     Away,  away, 
Farther  and  farther  on  thought  flies,  and  yet 
Reaches  them  not.    Beyond  the  wild,  blue  track 
Of  this  our  world  it  sweeps  —  beyond  the  track 
Of  that  ring'd  orb  the  heathen  deified, 
Old  Saturn  named — beyond  the  farthest  star, 
That  twinkles  round  the  sun  —  ay,  and  beyond 
The  track  sublime  of  the  great  sun  himself, 
Hanging  alone  in  heaven,  —  beyond  all  these, 
Thought,  seraph-wing'd,  sweeps  daringly,  and  yet 
Reaches  not  the  first  trace  of  those  far  fires, 
Glowing,  yet  never  fading  —  myriads  burning 
In  the^  blue  concave,  where  no  thought  may  pierce, 
Save  the  Eternal's.     And  yet  those  bright  orbs 
Created  were,  and  in  harmonious  march 
Traverse  the  air  together.     Not  one  of  all 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION.  H7 

Those  sparkling  points  of  scarce  distinguishable  flame, 
But  hath  its  part  and  place  in  that  grand  scheme, 
Fixed  by  the  God  of  Heaven.     Laws,  times,  place,  motions, 
All  these  each  hath,  and  there  they  roll  for  ever, 
Changing  and  yet  unchanged.     The  wilder'd  mind 
Turns  from  the  scene  amazed,  and  asks  itself 
If  this  can  be  ! 

And  yet,  how  Fancy  dreams 

Of  those  bright  worlds  !     Tell  us,  ye  unseen  Powers ! 
Ye  that  do  gather  round  us  in  these  hours 
When  the  irnpassion'd  world  lies  lock'd  in  sleep 
And  the  day's  whirl  is  over  —  tell  us  here, 
What  are  those  rolling  worlds?     Are  there  bright  scenes, 
Such  as  we  dream  of  here  ?     Are  there  fair  realms, 
Robed  in  such  hues  as  this?     Do  wild  hills  there, 
Heave  their  high  tops  to  such  a  bright  blue  heaven 
As  this  which  spans  our  world  ?     Have  they  rocks  there, 
Ragged  and  thunder-rent,  through  whose  wild  chasms 
Leap  the  white  cataracts,  and  wreathe  the  woods 
With  rainbow  coronets  ?     Spread  such  bright  vales 
There  in  the  sunlight?  —  cots  and  villages?  — 
Turrets,  and  towers,  and  temples,  —  dwell  these  there, 
Glowing  with  beauty  ?     Wilderness  and  wild, 


88  A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

Heaving  and  rolling  their  green  tops,  and  ringing 
With  the  glad  notes  of  myriad-colored  birds 
Singing  of  happiness — have  they  these  there? 
Spreiid  such  bright  plains  there  to  th'  admiring  eye, 
Veined  by  glad  brooks,  that  to  the  loose,  white  stones, 
Tell  their  complaint  all  day  ?     Waves,  spreading  sheets, 
That  mirror  the  white  clouds,  and  moon,  and  stars, 
Making  a  mimic  heaven  ?     Streams,  mighty  streams  ! 
Waters,  resistless  floods  !  that,  rolling  on, 
(iather  like  seas,  and  heave  their  waves  about, 
Mocking  the  tempest  ?     Ocean  !  those  vast  tides, 
Tumbling  about  the  globe  with  a  wild  roar 
From, age  to  age? 

And  tell  us,  do  those  worlds 

Change  like  .our  own  ?     Comes  there  the  merry  Spring, 
Soft  and  sweet-voiced,  and  in  its  hands  the  wealth 
Of  leaves  to  deck  the  forest  —  flowers,  and  scatter'd 
In  the  green  vales  and  on  the  slopes,  to  fling 
Over  a  fae'ry  world, —  and  feathery  winds, 
And  airs,  and  smiling  sunshine  —  birds,  and  bees, 
Filling  the  soft  savannas  with  the  sound 
Of  their  low  murmurings  ?     Have  they  the  months 
Of  the  full  Summer,  with  its  skies,  and  clouds, 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION.  89 

And  suns,  and  showers,  and  soothing  fragrance  sent 
Up  from  a  thousand  tubes  ?     And  Autumn  too, 
Pensive  and  pale,  do  these  sweet  days  come  there  — 
Wreathing  the  wilderness  with  such  gay  bands 
Of  brightness  and  of  beauty,  till  the  earth, 
Late  fresh  and  flowering,  seems  like  some  fair  bride, 
Met,  in  the  month  of  dalliance,  with  the  frosts 
Of  a  too-killing  sorrow  ?     And  sublime  — 
Within  his  grasp  the  whirlwinds,  and  his  brows 
White  with  the  storms  of  ages,  and  his  breath 
Fett'ring  the  streams,  and  ribbing  the  old  hills 
With  ice,  and  sleet,  and  snow  —  and,  far  along 
The  sounding  ocean's  side,  his  frosty  chains 
Flinging,  till  the  wild  waves  grow  mute,  or  mutter 
Only  in  their  dread  caves,  —  old  Winter  !  he  — 
Have  you  him  there  ? 

And  tell  us,  hath  a  God, 

Sentient  and  wise,  placed  there  the  abstruser  realm 
Of  thinking  and  of  feeling  ?     Have  ye  minds, 
Grasping  and  great  like  ours  ?  —  and  reaching  souls, 
That,  spurning  their  prison,  burst  away  and  soar 
Up  to  a  mightier  converse,  than  the  rounds 
Of  a  dull  daily  being  ?     And  warm  hearts, 


90  A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

Do  they  dwell  there  ?  —  hearts  fondly  lock'd  to  hearts, 

Into  each  other's  natures  pouring,  wild, 

Floods  of  deep  feeling,  and  a  life  so  sweet 

Death  doth  but  make  it  sweeter  ?      Have  ye  dreamers  ? 

Young  hearts  !  proud  souls,!  that  catch  from  every  thing 

A  greatness  and  a  grandeur  of  delight, 

That  common  souls  feel  not  ?  —  souls  that  do  dwell 

Only  in  thoughts  of  beauty,  linking  forth, 

Into  one  mystic  chain,  the  fadeless  flowers 

And  wreaths  of  immortality  ?  —  that  dwell 

Only  to  think  and  feel,  and  be  the  slaves 

Of  a  sad  nature,  and,  when  life  is  over, 

Only  to  take  the  charnel  with  the  hope, 

A  star  may  hang  above  them  for  the  eye    " 

Of  the  far  slumbering  ages  ? 

False,  false,  all  ! 

And  vain  the  wing  of  fancy  to  explore 
The  track  of  angels !     Vain  thought,  to  fold  back 
This  gorgeous  canopy,  and  send  the  eye 
On  to  those  realms  of  glory  !     Mighty  One  ! 
Thou  who  dost  look  on  all  —  the  great,  the  good, 
Humbled,  or  hoping,  —  pride,  or  the  poor  wretch 
Laid  on  his  mat  of  misery  —  thou  dost  watch, 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION.  91 

And  thou  hast  power  o'er  all  I     Thou  hast  alone, 

Wrapp'd  in  thine  own  immensity,  the  power, 

To  paint  a  leaf,  or  roll  ten  thousand  worlds 

Around  the  universe  !     O,  let  the  heart, 

Trembling  and  awe-struck  here,  lay  its  poor  hope 

Low  at  thy  feet;  and  trust  that  thou,  at  last, 

When  thou  shall  shake  these  heavens,  and  rend  away 

The  pillars  of  the  universe,  wilt  save 

This  glimmering  mind  now  here,  to  be  a  star  — 

bright,  for  some  other  world  ! 


NOON      IN     THE     FOREST. 


THIS  is  indeed  a  sacred  solitude, 
And  beautiful  as  sacred.     Here  no  sound, 
Save  such  as  makes  the  stillness  seem  more  still, 
Falls  on  the  ear,  and  all  around  the  eye 
Meets  naught  but  hath  a  moral.     These  deep  shades 
With  here  and  there  an  upright  trunk  of  ash, 
Or  beech,  or  nut,  whose  branches  interlaced 
O'ercanopy  us,  and,  shutting  out  the  day, 
A  twilight  make  —  they  press  upon  the  heart 
With  a  strange  meaning,  and  a  varied  power. 
These  trunks  enormous,  from  the  mountain's  side 
Torn  roots  and  all  by  whirlwinds ;  those  vast  pines, 
Athwart  the  ravine's  melancholy  gloom 
Transversely  cast ;  these  monarchs  of  the  wood, 


NOON    IN    THE    FOREST.  93 

Dark,  gnarl'd,  centennial  oaks,  that  throw  their  arms 

So  proudly  up ;  those  monstrous  ribs  of  rock, 

That,  shiver'd  by  the  thunder's  stroke,  and  huiTd 

From  yonder  cliff,  their  bed  for  centuries, 

Here  crushed  and  wedged  —  all  by  their  massivenesti 

And  silent  strength,  impress  us  with  a  sense 

Of  Deity.     And  here  are  wanted  not 

More  delicate  forms  of  beauty.     Numerous  tribes 

Of  natural  flowers  do  blossom  in  these  shades, 

Meet  for  the  scene  alone.     At  every  step, 

Some  beauteous  combination  of  soft  hues, 

Less  brilliant  though  than  those  that  deck  the  field, 

The  eye  attracts.     Mosses  of  softest  green 

Creep  round  the  trunks  of  the  decayed  trees, 

And  mosses,  hueless  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Inlay  the  turf.     Here  softly  peeping  forth, 

The  eye  detects  the  little  violet 

Such  as  the  city  boasts  —  of  paler  hue, 

Yet  fragrant  more.     The  simple  forest  flower, 

And  that  pied  gem,  the  wind-flower,  sweetly  named, 

Here  greet  the  search.     And  their  soft,  delicate  forms 

And  breath  of  perfume,  send  th'  unwilling  heart 

And  all  its  aspirations  to  the  source 

Of  light  and  life.     And  woodland  sounds  are  here, 


94  NOON    IN    THE    FOREST. 

Such  as  the  mind  to  that  soft  melancholy 
The  poet  feels,  lull  soothingly.     The  winds 
Are  playing  with  the  forest  tops  in  glee, 
And  music  make.     Sweet  rivirlets,  clear,  cool, 
Slip  here  and  there  from  out  the  crevices 
Of  rifted  rocks,  and,  welling  'mid  the  roots 
Of  prostrate  trees  or  blocks  transversely  cast, 
Form  jets  of  driven  snow.     Soft  symphonies, 
Of  birds  unseen,  on  every  side  swell  out, 
As  if  the  spirit  of  the  wood  complained, 
Harmonious,  and  most  prodigal  of  sound ; 
And  these  can  woo  the  spirit  with  such  power, 
And  tune  it  to  a  mood  so  exquisite, 
That  the  enthusiast  Heart  forgets  the  world, 
Its  strifes  and  follies,  and  seeks  only  here 
To  satisfy  its  thirst  for  happiness. 

To  shades  and  solitudes  have  poets  ever 
Turn'd  for  instruction,  and  in  these  soft  forms 
Of  ever-varying  beauty,  and  the  sounds 
Of  natural  harmony,  have  deemed  they  found 
Truths  of  strange  import,  and  have  drawn  from  thence 
Lessons  of  wisdom.     Hence  the  fanciful 
And  beautiful  superstition  of  the  world, 


NOON    IN    THE    FOREST.  95 

In  other  ages.     Founts  that  the  shepherd's  lip 

Cooled,  made  him  thankful,  and  the  spring  became 

A  benefactress.     Music  in  the  hills, 

Made  him  associate  some  captive  god 

With  music  there.     The  reeds  that  in  the  stream 

Sighed  to  the  voluble  breathing  of  the  wind, 

Shaped  out  a  Nymph,  that,  henceforth,  with  bright  lorks 

Guarded  its  waters.     Hence  the  orgies, 

And  rites  druidical  in  solemn  groves 

Of  early  Britain; -for  the  very  airs, 

From  rock,  or  steep,  or  gloomy  solitude, 

Or  mount,  or  cave,  breathed  over  him,  and  moved 

His  spirit  to  such  universal  Love, 

He 'felt  it  was  from  God.     Then,  since  these  groves 

Are  held  the  residence  of  spiritual 

And  breathing  essences,  let  me  here  feel 

The  beauty  that  there  is  in  the  calm  shade, 

The  wisdom  too,  and  while  from  every  thing 

Goes  up  a  silent  worship  into  Heaven, 

Rapt  be  the  poet  with  the  theme  he  sings, 

And,  gathering  thence  his  strength,  be  bettor  fitted 

To  follow  out  life's  daily  charities, 

And  tread  the  way  rejoicing. 


96 


MAY    MORNING. 

(A     DESCRIPTIVE     SKETCH.) 
/ 

A  SWEETER  holier  morn  there  could  not  be, 
Beauty  was  all  abroad  in  the  soft  air, 

The  sky  seem'd  garnish'd  for  a  jubilee, 
It  bent  above  so  beautifully  fair, 

And  every  thing  above,  beneath,  around, 

Was  full  of  life  and  poetry  and  sound. 

The  earth  lay  clad  in  one  fresh  flood  of  green, 
Slept  on  the  bended  blades  the  emerald  dew, 

And  oft  the  early  violet  was  seen, 

Adventurous  birrsting  up  the  green  sod  through, 

And  as  I  pass'd  the  streams  gush'd  forth  in  glee, 

And  by  my  side  humm'd  low  the  path-side  bee. 


MAY    MORNING.  97 

r 

The  young  winds  whispered  on  the  aspen  spray, 
The  early  birds  that  left  their  nestlings  there, 

Glanced  out  and  in  to  greet  the  new-born  day, 
Which  falling  on  their  golden  plumage  fair. 

Made  all  the  wood  along  its  openings 

(ileam  with  the  Iris  colors  of  glad  wings. 

The  leaves  were  dancing  in  the  solitudes, 

And  from  the  forest's  skirts  the  breeze  stole  out, 

And  from  the  dim  recesses  of  the  woods 

Broke  on  the  list'ning  ear  the  torrent's  shout. 

And  faintly  heard  and  interruptedly, 

From  the  low  vale  came  up  the  herdsman's  cry. 

And  there  and  cradled  in  tranquillity, 

The  lake  lay  slumbering  in  the  morning  air, 

Above  whose  glassy  breast  the  broad  blue  sky 
Bent  down  to  see  a  mimic  heaven  there. 

And  there  and  sparkling  in  the  rosy  beam,     , 

The  willow  dipp'd  its  tresses  in  the  stream. 


98 


TO 


I  MET  thee  in  the  morn  of  life, 

When  every  thing  was  in  its  Spring, 
And  sure  we  loved  and  from  our  souls, 

If  heart  to  heart  did  ever  cling; 
I  know  my  heart  beat  wild  to  thine, 

As  few  have  beat  this  side  the  skies, 
And  thine  methought  was  link'd  to  mine, 

By  love's  most  hallow'd  mysteries. 

We  have  been  torn  asunder  since, 
Our  pathways  have  been  far  apart, 

And  ours  has  been  the  lot  that  stings, 
And  bitterly  the  bleeding  heart ; 


TO  .  99 

We  have  not  known  a  sky  all  sun, 

We  have  not  had  a  path  all  light, 
And  o'er  us  both  have  bent  the  clouds, 

That  pour  down  on  the  world  its  night. 

I  love  thee  yet  —  dost  thou  love  me  ? 

I  tell  thee  my  heart  still  goes  forth, 
And  calls  thee  dearest  of  all  things, 

That  stretch  around  o'er  this  waste  earth  ; 
I  see  not  in  the  throng  of  pride, 

I  scarcely  meet  in  Fancy's  land, 
One  grasping  all  my  soul  as  thou, 

Or  swaying  it  with  thy  command. 

I  had  deem'd  years  ago  thou  couldst 

No  more  chain  up  this  fiery  heart; 
That  lost  e'en  was  the  power  to  feel, 

As  I  have  felt  with  thee  apart ; 
I  did  not  dream  that  but  to  catch, 

As  now  the  glance  of  that  wild  eye, 
Would  be  to  feel  again  thy  power, 

In  all  its  wild,  deep  energy. 


100  TO    . 

As  yet  as  in  the  day  that  's  dead, 

My  heart  feels  and  it  owns  thy  spell, 
'  And  round  me  seems  again  the  chain, 

So  strong  and  yet  invisible ; 
That  same  eye  seems  like  Heaven's  to  me, 

That  same  lip  as  it  did  in  dreams, 
And  that  wild  flood  of  locks  as  erst, 

Round  thee  in  golden  torrents  streams ! 

We  've  walk'd  as  erst  the  forest  paths, 

And  places  known  in  other  days ; 
And  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky, 

And  Morn's  and  Eve's  more  glorious  blaze  ; 
By  streams  and  lakes  we  both  have  loved, 

And  heard  all  the  sweet  music  there, 
Till  back  we  seem'd  translated  to 

The  days  when  thought  was  light  as  air. 

If  ever  back  in  fancy  rush'd 
The  pride  and  beauty  of  the  past, 

And  o'er  us,  in  its  morning  flush, 
Life's  early  lights  and  hopes  were  cast, 


TO    .  101 

Methinks  't  was  gazing  on  thee  there, 

And  hearing  thee,  and  telling  o'er 
The  world  where  once  we  dream'd,  and  joys 

We  both  had  known  and  loved  before. 

O,  strange,  strange,  that  it  will  live  on, 

This  passion  of  the  human  heart ; 
Through  all  life's  joys,  through  all  life's  tears, 

And  be  that  same,  strange,  fiery  part; 
That  after  years  can  crush  it  never, 

And  cares  that  crush  us  down,  cannot 
Affright  it  from  the  soul,  or  change 

Its  power  of  feeling  and  of  thought  ! 

i 

Strange,  it  will  live  when  other  loves, 

Like  flowers  have  sprung  up  in  the  breast, 
And  other  hearts  have  been  to  us 

The  lights  of  life,  belov'd,  caress'd  ; 
Strange,  that  that  early,  first,  deep  love, 

Like  some  deep  well-spring  far  beneath, 
Will  in  still  hours  pour  forth  its  waves, 

Yes,  till  the  soul  is  hush'd  in  death ! 


102  TO  . 

Strange,  that  love's  heart  will  not  grow  old- 

That  all  life's  other  passions  die, 
And  yet  years  only  give  to  this 

A  mightier  intensity ; 
That  like  some  torrent  pour'd  along 

The  sounding  vales  in  wrath  and  pride, 
This  rolls  on  through  the  human  heart, 

And  ever  wid'ning,  deep'ning  tide ! 

Strange,  that  the  man  by  love  renews 

Again  the  loveliness  of  youth, 
And  feels  again  restored  its  green, 

Fresh  images  and  forms  of  truth; 
And  leaps  again  the  young,  light  heart, 

And  dance  life's  hopes  in  crowds  along, 
And  echoes  round  and  over  us, 

Life's  first,  wild,  glad  and  glorious  song  ! 

Ah,  they  do  sin  indeed  who  say 
That  love  can  pass  away  with  life; 

Its  power  is  not,  nor  is  its  joy, 
Confined  within  a  world  of  strife ; 


TO  .  .  103 

Who  feels  its  power  has  felt  this  too  — 

It  shall  live  on,  boast  wider  sway, 
When  life's  night,  in  Heaven's  holier  dawn, 

Bursts  into  an  immortal  day  ! 


104 


HEARTS    WE    LOYE. 


THEY  talk  of  homes  amid  the  wild, 

And  fancy  decks  them  forth, 
With  every  charm  that  ever  smiled 

To  beautify  the  earth ; 
Yet  sure  I  am  the  purest  flame 

E'er  human  heart  did  move, 
Is  that  sweet  light  that  burneth  bright 

In  happy  hearts  we  love. 

The  sailor  sails  upon  the  sea, 
His  heart,  his  home  is  there ; 

The  spirit's  veriest  witchery 
Comes  in  that  spot  and  air ; 


HEARTS    WE    LOVE.  10f> 

He  proud  will  roam,  and  dare  the  foam, 

And  all  its  wonders  prove, 
Yet  sure  we  are  no  rest  is  there 

Like  that  in  hearts  we  love. 

And  one  will  find  his  home  in  fame, 

Another  in  his  gain, 
And  some  despise  a  glorious  name 

And  riot  in  the  mean  ; 
With  different  mind  they  each  will  find 

A  joy,  a  thing  to  move, 
And  such  it  is,  but  not  the  bliss 

That  lives  in  hearts  we  love. 

And  some  have  thought  the  martyr's  crown, 

So  full  of  glories  bright, 
Had  joys,  from  its  fire  circlet  won, 

To  thrill  with  wild  delight; 
Such  will  receive  —  such  crown  will  give 

A  joy  like  that  above, 
Yet  nothing  sure  than  bliss  more  pure 

That  burns  irt  hearts  we  love. 


106  HEARTS    WE    LOVE. 

Others  have  thought  the  poet's  fire 

Unearthly  pleasure  has, 
And  light  there  is  around  his  lyre 

That  doth  in  Heaven  blaze ; 
He  strikes  the  string,  his  numbers  ring, 

Rapt  is  his  soul  above, 
And  yet  his  bliss  is  not  like  this 

Found  in  the  hearts  we  love. 

When  morning  conies,  we  go  abroad 

Upon  the  vernal  earth, 
And  feel  the  very  breath  of  God 

Is  in  its  shouting  mirth  ; 
The  heart  's  not  still,  —  with  wildest  thrill 

Its  living  pulses  move, 
Yet  comes  there  not  with  all  this  thought 

The  bliss  of  hearts  we  love. 

The  warrior  dares  the  angry  path 
Where  death-doomed  surges  swell; 

The  madness  of  its  awful  wrath 
He  seeks  —  it  pleases  well ; 


HEARTS   WE    LOVE.  107 

Yet  go  to  him  when  stars  burn  dim 

O'er  those  life  late  did  move, 
Ask  if  his  pleasure  has  that  large  measure 

Poured  from  the  hearts  we  love. 

Then  give  me  one  in  which  my  own 

Shall  ever  centred  be> 
And  I  will  spurn  the  monarch's  throne  — 

The  richer  man  than  he ; 
There  's  not  o'er  all  this  earthly  ball 

One  joy  like  this  to  move  — 
A  happy  heart  that  dwells  apart, 

And  lives  in  our  own  love. 


f 

108 


THE    FIRST    DECEMBER    STORM. 


IT  has  come  again,  and  it  sweeps  along, 

The  storm  in  its  rapid  might ; 
We  hear  it  howling  among  the  woods, 

It  sweeps  from  the  stars  their  light ; 
We  hear  his  voice  as  he  rolls  along, 

Borne  from  the  icy  north, 
And  we  feel  it  shake  to  his  fearful  wing  — 

This  old  and  crazy  earth. 

We  have  had  the  Spring  in  its  light  and  bloom, 
The  vales  and  the  hills  all  flowers, 

And  the  lovely  light  of  the  sweet  Spring  sky, 
And  all  its  sweets  were  ours ; 


THE    FIRST    DECEMBER    STORM.  109 

The  Summer  came  too,  in  matron  grace, 

And  the  world  smiled  as  she  moved, 
And  the  Summer  bless'd  us  as  she  can  bless, 

She  hath  loved  us  and  was  beloved. 

And  the  pleasant  Autumn  pass'd  along, 

And  a  pleasant  power  she  had, 
And  yet  round  the  heart  she  flung  her  chain, 

Till  its  very  bliss  was  sad; 
Over  the  leaves,  over  the  flowers, 

Cast  to  the  earth  along, 
She  sung  a  melancholy  note, 

And  the  heart  join'd  with  her  song. 

But  here  we  have,  and  he  comes  in  wrath, 

The  tyrant  of  the  year; 
And  he  breathes  from  his  furious  lips  the  snows, 

And  the  sleet  and  the  ice  severe ; 
And  over  the  hills,  over  the  vales,         , 

He  flies  with  rapid  wing, 
And  he  chains  the  waves,  and  withers  up 

All  that  danced  to  the  touch  of  Spring. 


110  THE    FIRST    DECEMBER    STORM. 

Yet  he  is  not,  surely  without  some  charm, 

For  see  !  where  he  drives  along ; 
Lo  !  in  what  clouds  he  wraps  himself, 

And  hark  !  to  his  thunder-song : 
He  bows  the  forest  with  his  fierce  breath, 

He  spreads  himself  on  the  waves, 
And  the  old  waves  pause  in  their  stormy  joy, 

Or  howl  in  their  hidden  caves. 

He  piles  the  snow  in  the  vales,  he  heaps 

The  hills  till  they  prouder  are ; 
He  decks  the  forest  with  all  the  fires 

That  live  in  the  rainbow's  glare ; 
He  brings  us  too,  the  thoughts  of  home, 

For  we  gather  the  hearth-stone  round, 
And  here,  while  his  voice  is  heard  without, 

Are  love  arid  its  blessings  found. 

O,  forget  not  now  such  as  shrink  to-day, 
From  the  storm  that  howls  along ; 

And  forget  not  the  wretches  that  shrink  to-night, 
As  they  hear  from  on  high  his  song ; 


THE    FIRST    DECEMBER    STORM.  Ill 

Let  feelings  such  as  wake  the  heart 

That  feels  for  its  brother's  woe, 
Lead  us  to  send  to  the  God  of  storms, 

A  prayer  for  earth's  wretched  now  ! 

So  shall  the  Winter,  coming  on 

Furious,  and  driving  by, 
Inspire  with  thoughts  of  joy,  and  wake 

Each  social  sympathy  ; 
And,  further  —  bless  the  heart  with  thoughts 

That  yearn  for  our  human  kind, 
Till  we  learn  to  welcome  the  god  of  storms, 

And  the  howl  of  the  wintry  wind  ! 


112 


DREAMS. 


WHERE  is  the  man  in  his  later  years, 

Who  does  not  sometimes  long 
To  go  back  to  the  dreams  of  his  early  life, 

And  its  many  feelings  strong ; 
To  forget  the  thoughts  that  now  line  his  brow, 

To  fling  off  the  load  from  his  breast, 
And  to  see  again,  and  to  feel  again, 

As  he  did  in  those  days  so  blest  ? 

He  is  not  man  who  thinks  not  like  this, 
He  has  lost  his  heart  with  its  youth  ; 

He  has  flung  away  all  his  life's  sweet  flowers, 
He  lias  lost  all  a  young  heart's  truth ; 


DREAMS.  113 

He  is  chain'd  to  dust  like  an  eagle  fluna 

By  the  storm  to  the  frozen  earth  ; 
And  he  lies  there  draggled,  and  yet  content  — 

He  has  lost  all  his  godlike  worth. 

Can  a  man,  amid  the  things  that  now 

Press  him,  and  chain  him  down  ; 
With  the  many  thoughts  that  now  must  be  his, 

And  when  e'en  life's  pleasures  frown ;  — 
Can  a  man  behold  all  the  eye  must  see, 

Look  at  the  earth  as  it  is, 
And  not  turn  again,  and  not  sigh  to  win, 

For  a  moment,  life's  early  bliss? 

That  bliss,  't  is  true,  had  its  little  cares, 

The  youthful  eye  oft  ran  o'er, 
And  the  little  heart,  a  frighten'd  bird, 

Beat,  till  its  wings  were  gore  ; 
And  crush'd  was  the  hope,  and  check'd  the  dream 

That  offer'd  the  heart  to  bless ; 
Still,  with  the  years  that  have  run  away, 

There  have  run  not  life's  miseries. 


1 14  DREAMS. 

O,  for  the  dreams  of  the  youthful  mind  ! 

O,  for  the  thoughts  that  then 
Danced  like  the  waves,  flew  like  the  light, 

Beyond  e'en  an  angel's  ken ! 
O,  for  the  magic  power  that  caught 

The  light  from  heaven's  burning  throne, 
And  flung  it  over  this  lovely  world, 

Till  like  heaven's  own  orb  it  shone  ! 

And  the  young  mad  dreams  of  the  young  mad  boy, 

The  wealth  that  the  heart  would  win, 
The  smile  like  heaven's,  the  eye  a  star, 

And  the  casket  it  trembled  in  ! 
O,  the  pleasing  forms  hearts  can  conjure  up, 

The  life  and  loveliness, 
That  come  in  our  dreams,  live  in  our  thoughts, 

And  all  that  we  deem'd  would  bless  ! 

'T  is  true,  we  know,  these  are  but  dreams  now, 
Crush'd  are  our  hopes  of  fame  ; 

Perish'd  the  light  of  the  boy's  gay   world, 
/ 

Its  beauty  is  now  a  name ;  — 


DREAMS.  115 

The  heart  now  dances  no  more  as  wont, 

Cold  goes  the  blood  and  slow  ; 
But  yet,   't  is  sweet,  a  moment  here, 

To  dream  —  't  was  not  always  so. 


THE    LOVE    OF    FAME. 


STRANGE,  that  it  will  .so  deeply  burn, 

This  love  of  a  glorious  name, 
As  that,  wheresoever  in  life  I  turn, 

I  but  mark  that  eye  of  flame ; 
Strange,  that  it  thus  will  rule  each  thought, 

And  shape  all  my  feelings  so, 
As  that,  whether  I  seem  to  think  or  not, 

That  tide  doth  still  onward  flow ! 

Do  I  not  well  know  't  is  an  idle  dream, 
Do  I  not  well  know  't  is  like  rust, 

Eating,  no  matter  how  it  may  seem, 
Deeper  the  more  I  trust  ? 


THE    LOVE    OF    FAME.  117 


Do  I  not  well  know,  says  not  this  the  past, 

The  boldest  dream  of  the  soul 
Has  left  a  power  o'er  my  spirit  cast, 

That  has  curs'd  me  with  its  control  ? 

And  is  't  not  writ  in  the  book  of  Life, 

And  is  ,'t  not  by  good  men  said, 
To  weary  the  heart  with  a  fearftil  strife, 

And  then  leave  it  like  the  dead  • 
Like  it  ?  —  ah,  ,no  !  —  it  unfits  to  go, 

Alone,  to  that  realm  of  dead, 
Whither,  no  matter  for  joy  or  woe, 

We  go  with  a  fearful  tread. 

And  yet  it  burns,  though  we  know  is  curs'd 

The  heart,  gall'd  by  love  of  fame ;        , 
Curs'd  by  a  power  in  itself  the  worst, 

And  its  good  too,  doth  curse  the  same; 
?• 

And  it  will  burn  on  in  th'  eternal  mind, 
**  • 

Upward  and  onward  going, 

Like  an  eagle,  whose  proud  wings,  unconfin'd. 

W  * 
Dare  the  storm  to  its  own  undoing. 


118  THE    LOVE    OF    FAME. 

'          ".''•- 

i  >  .  .  .-.» .«  i 

U,  is  it  not,  this  deathless  thirst, 

Moulding,  compelling,  urging  — 
Like  ocean,  his  rocky  barriers  burst, 

Higher  and  higher  surging  — 
A  proof  thus  given  to  us  here  chain 'd 

To  the  «arth  a  little  season, 
Of  some  other  sphere,  which  shall  yet  be  gain'd. 

When  is  pass'd  this  of  blinded  reason  ? 


V 


r    •  m 

V.'" 


V; 


" 


> 

.   *  &.» 

119 

•  '    '  * 

> 

3i 

'  X  *  *& 

V* 

^; 

»   -• 

AN    ASPIRATION    FOR    FREEDOM. 

(WRITTEN  IN  ILLNESS.) 

O,  ONCE  again  to  tread  the  hills, 

That  wind  away  so  freshly  clad, 
Where  fountains  flash,  and  fuming  rills, 

And  torrents  shout,  and  streams  are  glad ; 
And  hear  the  mountain  wind  complain, 

And  breathe  it  on  my  wan  lip  prest, 
And  feel  the  gush  of  joy  again, 

Thrill  through  and  through  my  wearied  breast ! 

Heavens !  how  the  mounting  day-god  shines, 
With  beamy  locks  about  him  twined  ; 

And  how  the  sunbeams  fire  the  pines, 
That  rock  and  dally  in  the  wind ; 


**  *s 


- 
120  AN    ASPIRATION    FOR    FREEDOM. 


,• 
How  down  the  vale  the  radiance  flies, 

Sheer  to  the  azure  lake  there  glancing  — 
Lighting  with  the  ten  thousand  dyes 
Of  heaven  waves  and  billows  dancing  ! 

The  birds  seem  merrier  in  the  shades, 

Than  they  are  wont  on  morns  like  this  ; 
The  cattle  low  along  the  glades, 

As  if  they  felt  the  proffer'd  bliss  ; 
O,  to  be  chain'd  by  sickness  now, 

And  forced  to  keep  the  sick  man's  room, 
O,  ye  who  never  felt  his  woe, 

Ye  cannot  know  the  sick  man's  gloom  ! 

f     *     ' 
____  j  .    _____  ______  _.0  ___    __    ..  -r-7 

Ye  full  of  life  and  hope  and  glee, 
Whose  pleasures  ne'er  abate,  except 

To  flow  again  more  gladsomely  ; 
Ye  blest  with  every  good  that  is, 

And  blissful  thoughts  that  banish  care, 
O,  learn  to  prize  your  present  bliss, 

And  bless  ye,  that  your  sky  is  fair  ! 


•X 

AN    ASPIRATION    FOR    FREEDOM-  121 

Ye  love  the  mountains,  and  ye  clinab 

Until  ye  seem  to  leave  the  earth  ; 
Ye  love  the  rivulets,  and  their  chime 

Beguiles  ye  with  its  pretty  mirth ; 
Ye  nowhere  look  but  blessings  haste, 

And  woo  your  tardiness  to  take  them  ; 
Your  days  are  all  in  calmness  pass'd, 

Your  nights  are  sweet  as  dreams  can  make  them. 

O,  think  of  those — ye  favor'd  few  — 

Who  pine  on  beds  of  woe  and  pain  ; 
Who  love  the  scene  as  well  as  you, 

Who  love  the  mountains  and  the  main  ; 
Think  how  they  groan  in  deep  dismay, 

And  curse  the  sun  from  day  till  night; 
How  every  effort  to  be  gay, 

But  brings  their  misery  more  to  light. 

And  it  shall  —  while  it  wrings  a  tear 
From  eyes  not  wont  to  harbour  them  — 

Make  ye  (believe  it)  happier, 

If  more  your  hearts  can  hold  the  same  ; 


AN    ASPIRATION    FOR    FREEDOM. 

A  soflen'd  and  a  sweeter  peace 

Shall,  instant,  in  your  bosoms  glow  ; 

That  gentle  hope  and  consciousness, 
Of  such  as  weep  another's  woe. 


123 


THE    GLOW    OF    YOUTH. 


O,  WHERE  has  it  gone,  all  that  glow  of  the  heart, 
We  enter'd  on  life  with,  and  challenged  it  first, 
.When  the  heart  dared  despise  all  earth's  trappings  and  art, 
And  felt  itself  rich  in  the  virtues  it  nurs'd? 

We  all  can  remember  the  heart  of  the  child, 

How  it  leapt,  and  the  earth  smiled,  and  laugh'd  too  the  sky  ; 
And  we  never  went  forth  but  a  happiness  wild 

Seemed  poured  through  the  breast  from  the  ear  and  the  eye. 

How  the  voice  of  the  wind  rang  that  kissed  each  sweet  tree  ! 

How  the  sun  blazed  at  morn,  how  he  glow'd  with  the  night! 
How  each  fountain  leapt  forth  from  its  cave  shouting  free  ! 

How  each  living  thing  shouted  its  burst  of  delight ! 


124  THE    GLOW  .OF    YOUTH. 

And  when  boyhood  was  over,  and  youth  hurried  on, 
And  the  earth  had  a  truer  yet  still  brighter  sheen, 

How  the  soul  woke,  and  O,  how  it  gazed  on  the  sun, 
That  then  flung  its  first  light  and  life  o'er  the  scene  ! 

*» 
How  the  mind  shot  away  in  its  wild  dreams  of  fame  ! 

How  the  heart  leapt  and  flamed  with  its  first  thoughts  of  love  ! 
How  we  thrilled  with  a  happiness  words  may  not  name  ! 
How  the  earth  seem'd  transform'd  all  to  beauty  above  ! 

And  how  dared  we  then  start  away  in  the  chase 
Of  bubbles  that  danced  wild  on  life's  rushing  wave  ! 

How  little  we  cared  for  the  rocks  in  the  race, 

How  little  we  deem'd  we  but  rush'd  on  the  grave  ! 

We  sped  on  —  we  caught  each  wild  sound  — and  we  seem'd 
More  sure  of  our  bliss  as  each  sun  hurried  by  ; 

And  the  heart  did  indeed  catch  life's  light  as  it  stream 'd, 
And  the  loud  ringing  music  of  earth  and  of  sky  ! 

O,  where  is  the  glow  now,  that  burn'd  in  us  then  ? 

Where  the  life  and  the  light  both  within  and  around  ? 
Where  the  glory  that  then  lay  on  peak  and  on  plain  — 

The  flowers  scattered  too  o'er  the  sunnier  ground  ? 


THE    GLOW    OF    YOUTH.  125 

Is  the  glow  of  life  dead  ?  —  shall  it  ne'er  wake  again  ? 

Is  its  joy  all  departed,  and  comes  it  not  here  ? 
Nay,  we  cannot  thus  deem  man  is  left  to  complain, 

But  we  must  slill  believe  there  's  a  sunnier  sphere. 

When  the  clog  that  now  chains  us  shall  drop  from  the  mind, 
And  the  soul  launches  off  on  its  far,  glorious  bourn, 

Then  life's  glow  shall  come  back,  and  life's  thoughts  like  the  wind, 
And  its  track  blaze  again  like  the  burst  of  the  morn  ! 
J 


126 


"  GONE    BEFORE    US." 


O,  WHAT  of  those  who  travel  on  before  us 
To  the  bright  spirit's  land  that  lies  afar ; 

Wandering  among  the  soft  lights  sailing  o'er  us, 
Perhaps  the  guiding  genius  of  some  star  ? 

» 
What  of  them  as  we  lay  them  in  the  drear 

And  awful  place  the  soul  shrinks  from  with  dread  : 
And  fling  the  cold  clod  in  and  fiery  tear, 

And  leave  them  to  the  slumbers  of  the  dead  ? 

O,  do  they  fly  off  as  we  fain  would  dream, 
And  dwell  at  ease  above  the  upper  sphere  ? 

And  doth  a  holier  sun  upon  them  stream, 
Such  as  too  oft  is  shrouded  o'er  us  here  ? 


"  GONE    BEFORE    US."  127 

And  do  the  joys  we  think  of  live  for  them  ? 

And  are  they  free  from  life's  dread,  awful  sting  ? 
And  must  they  there  no  more  life's  currents  stem, 

And  press  on  while  the  soul  is  withering  ? 

Is  there  a  world  of  beauty  such  as  this 

When  all  of  light  the  earth  has  glows  around,  — 

Beautiful  ever  the  majestic  skies, 

Beautiful  round  them  all  the  teeming  ground  ? 

Have  they  wild  streams  of  beauty  pouring  on  ? 

See  they  such  groves  and  forests  as  have  we, 
When  the  Spring  comes  or  when  the  Summer  's  done, 

And  ringing  with  resistless  harmony  ? 

* 

And  do  hearts  link  there  as  they  oft  will  bind 

Unto  each  other  in  this  crowded  earth, — 
Union  of  soul  and  sentiment  refined, 

Of  every  thing  that  gives  the  spirit  mirth  ? 

Are  all  the  dreams  we  often  here  have  cherislrd, 

Realized  fully  in  the  future  scene ; 
And  breaks  the  heart  there  never  o'er  hopes  perish'd, 

Till  we  have  curs'd  the  blisses  that  have  been  ? 


128  "  GONE    BEFORE    US." 

Then  will  we  leave  them  as  they  onward  go, 
One  after  one  unto  that  farther  land  ; 

And  we  will  still  the  'soul,  and  meekly  bow 
To  Him  who  chastens  with  a  father's  hand  ! 

We  will  prepare  us  for  the  solemn  change 

That  must  wait  all  —  to  leave  this  clogging  clay 

And  try  the  spirit's  world,  and  its  far  range, 
And  bask  us  in  the  splendors  of  its  day  ! 


129 


KING    PHILIP'S     BATTLE-SONG. 


WARRIORS,  one  and  all  arise, 

Sternly  grasp  your  battle-spears, 
Buckle  on  your  harnesses, 

Buckle  —  for  the  foe  appears  ; 
Let  each  red  man  string  his  bow, 

Quickly  see  the  arrow  set, 
Onward,  warriors,  on  —  ye  know 

Philip  of  Po-kon-o-ket. 

Warriors,  now  the  hour  has  come 
When  ye  all  for  freedom  cast, 

Wives  and  children,  friends  and  home, 
All  are  staked,  and  't  is  the  last  : 
9 


130  KING  PHILIP'S  'BATTLE-SONG. 

Like  a  wave  by  whirlwinds  driven, 
Come  they  for  a  desperate  fight; 

Like  a  rock  by  lightnings  riven, 

Would  they  crush  us  in  their  might. 

Warriors,  this  must  never  be, 

'T  is  our  soil,  we  '11  prove  it  so ; 
Were  they  thrice  our  enemy, 

Like  a  thunder-cloud  we  'd  go ; 
Such  they  are  —  for  kindness  shown, 

What  but  curses  do  we  get  ? 
Onward,  warriors,  on  —  ye  've  known 

Philip  of  Po-kon-o-ket. 

Warriors,  vainly  were  ye  nurs'd, 

If  ye  fail  your  leader  now  ; 
Vainly  did  your  mothers  first 

Nurse  ye  in  the  battle's  glow ; 
Vainly  bid  ye  face  the  blast 

Shrieking  round  the  forest  piles, 
Vainly  face  the  lightnings  cast 

Round  our  shores  and  rocky  isles. 


KING    PHILIP'S    BATTLE-SONG.  131 

Warriors,  seek  our  fathers'  dwellings, 

Mark  the  proofs  of  proud  deeds  done  — 
Trophies,  that  with  war-blast  swellings 

Pealing  round,  were  nobly  won ; 
Warriors,  't  is  their  spirit  bids  ye 

Battle,  breast  to  bosom  met ; 
Onward,  warriors,  onward  —  leads  ye 

Philip  of  Po-kon  o-ket. 

[Warriors,  think  of  buried  wrongs, 
Buried?  ay,  in  souls  of  flame ; 
Warriors,  think  of  chains  and  thongs 

(Coupled  with  the  red  man's  name ; 
Think  of  every  curs'd  return, 
When  they  had  our  favor  woo'd  — 
When  we  took  them  up  forlorn, 
Toss'd  upon  a  wintry  flood. 

Warriors,  lo,  their  phalanx  comes, 

Serried  far  with  glitt'ring  spears  ; 

, 

Cannons  roar,  and  stirring  drums  — 
Let  them  rather  banish  fears; 


132  KING  PHILIP'S  BATTLE-SONG. 

For  your  councils  and  your  fires, 
Battle  —  there  is  freedom  yet ; 

Onward,  warriors,  on  —  ne'er  tires 
Philip  of  Po-kon-o-ket. 

Warriors,  lo,  their  helmets  glancing, 

As  they  wheel  against  the  morn  ! 
-  Lo,  their  feathers  proudly  dancing, 

And  their  looks  of  tyrant-scorn  ! 
Warriors,  shall  these  craven  crowds 

Scorn  us  as  of  coward  worth  ? 
Lo,  as  lightning  from  the  clouds, 

Charge  and  sweep  them  from  the  earth  ! 

Warriors,  mark  the  bloody  game, 

And  the  thickest  battle  seek ; 
As  their  crashing  volleys  flame, 

Think  your  wives  and  children  shriek  ! 
Onward !  death  or  freedom  cry, 

Battle  with  a  gory  sweat ; 
Onward,  warriors,  on  —  outvie 

Philip  of  Po-kon-o-ket ! 


133 


FANNY   WILLOUGHBY. 

"  A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds."— MILTON. 

"  I  LOVE  thee,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

And  that  's  the  why,  ye  see, 
I  woo  thee,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

And  cannot  let  thee  be ; 
I  sing  for  thee,  I  sigh  for  thee, 

And  O,  you  may  depend  on  't, 
I  '11  weep  for  thee,  I  '11  die  for  thee, 

And  that  will  be  the  end  on  't. 

"I  love  thy  form  so  tall  and  straight, 
To  me  it  always  seems 


134  FANNY    WILLOUGHBY. 

As  if  it  were  the  counterfeit 
Of  some  I  've  'seen  in  dreams  ; 

It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had 
An  angel  by  my  side, 

And  then  I  think  I  am  so  bad, 
You  will  not  be  my  bride. 

"  I  love  the  golden  locks  that  glow 

About  that  brow  of  thine  ; 
I  always  thought  them  '  so  and  so,' 

But  now  they  are  divine ; 
They  're  like  an  Alpine  torrent's  rush  — 

The  finest  under  heaven ; 
They  're  like  the  bolted  clouds,  that  flush 

The  sky  of  Summer's  even. 

"  I  love  thy  clear  and  hazel  eye  — 

They  say  the  blue  is  fairer, 
And  I  confess  that  formerly, 

I  thought  the  blue  the  rarer ; 
But  when  I  saw  thine  eye  so  clear, 

Though  perfectly  at  rest, 
I  did  kneel  down,  and  I  did  swear, 

The  hazel  was  the  best. 


FANNY    W1LLOUGHBY.  135 

"  I  love  thy  hand  so  pale  and  soft, 

The  which,  in  days  '  lang  syne,' 
Ye,  innocent  as  trusting,  oft 

Would  softly  clasp  in  mine  ; 
I  thought  it  sure  was  chiseled  out 

Of  marble  by  the  geniuses, 
Like  those  the  poets  rant  about, 

The  virgins  and  the  Venuses. 

"  I  love  the  sounds  that  from  thy  lip 

Gush  holily  and  free, 
As  rills  that  from  their  caverns  slip, 

And  prattle  to  the  sea ; 
The  melody  for  aye  doth  steal 

To  hearts  by  sorrow  riven, 
And  then  I  think,  and  then  I  feel, 

That  music  comes  from  Heaven. 

"  Now  listen,  Fanny  Willoughby, 

To  what  I  cannot  keep, 
My  days  ye  rob  of  jollity, 

My  nights  ye  rob  of  sleep ; 
And  if  ye  don't  relent,  why  I 

Believe  you  will  me  kill ; 


136  FANNY    'WILLOUGHBY. 

For  passion  must  have  vent,  and  I 
Will  kill  myself,  I  will." 

'T  was  thus,  when  love  had  made  me  mad 

For  Fanny  Willoughby, 
I  told  my  tale,  half  gay,  half  sad, 

To  Fanny  Willoughby  ; 
And  Fanny  look'd  as  maiden  would, 

When  love  her  heart  did  burn, 
And  Fanny  sigh'd  as  maiden  should, 

And  murmur'd  a  retgrn. 

And  so  I  woo'd  Fan  Willoughby  — 

A  maiden  like  a  dove, 
And  so  I  won  Fan  Willoughby  — 

The  maiden  of  my  love  ; 
And  though  sad  years  have  pass'd  since  that, 

And  she  is  in  the  sky, 
I  never,  never  can  forget 

Sweet  Fanny  Willoughby. 


137 


MOMENTS    OF    CHEERFULNESS. 


FUNNY  it  is  that  fancy  can  so  fling 
A  charm  about  the  daily  walks  of  life, 
And  soften  down  the  ruggedness,  and  make 
The  whole  a  passage  with  no  cloud  of  care ; 
Can  clothe  the  skies  with  more  than  heavenly  freshness, 
Clothe  the  sweet  woods,  the  valleys  too  that  smile, 
The  waters  and  the  groves  and  every  thing; 
Giving  a  wondrous  melody  to  voices 
That  roll  out  from  the  coverts  in  deep  tones, 
Until  the  world  all  jocund  seems  with  echoes 
Such  as  we  dream  of  at  the  gate  of  Heaven. 

We  commonly  go  jogging  through  the  earth. 
We  sigh  and  whine  at  sorrow  as  it  comes, 


138  MOMENTS    OF    CHEERFULNESS. 

Magnify  evils  till  molehills  seem  mountains, 

Shut  our  eyes  on  the  light,  see  naught  but  shadows, 

Are  dead  to  music,  hearing  but  life's  discords, 

And  with  a  horrible  forgetfulness 

Of  the  pure  One  who  sitteth  in  the  clouds 

Dispensing  to  his  creatures  daily  dole, 

Say  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  death. 

O,  when  thy  heart  is  heavy  from  its  ills, 
And  thine  eye  sees  naught  but  a  shadow  spread 
Over  the  earth  and  th'  all-embracing  heavens, 
Pray  to  the  Father  of  all  loveliness 
To  purge  thine  eyesight,  help  thy  sinking  heart, 
Keep  thee  from  fretting  at  the  ills  we  see ; 
And  give  thee  patience  till  in  His  good  time, 
The  sorrow  and  temptation  have  pass'd  by. 


139 


THE      ISLAND. 

i  , 

FROM   "  THE    FAERY    ISLAND,"   AN    UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 

THAT  Isle,  so  beautiful  to  view, 
No  poet's  fancy  ever  drew  ; 
He  had  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing, 
With  all  the  beauty  he  could  bring. 
It  lay  upon  the  open  sea, 

It  lay  beneath  the  stars  and  sun  — 
A  thing,  too  beautiful  to  be, 

A  jewel,  cast  that  sea  upon  ! 
The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach, 

The  waves  came  rolling  up  the  sand, 
Then  backward  with  a  gentle  reach, 

Now  forward  to  the  land, 
Sparkling  and  beautiful,  —  tossing  there, 
Then  vanishing  into  the  air. 


140  THE    ISLAND. 

The  winds  came  upward  to  the  beach, 

The  waves  came  upward  in  a  curl, 
Then  far  along  the  shore's  slope  reach 

There  ran  a  line  of  pearl ; 
And  shells  were  there  of  every  hue, 

From  snowy  white,  to  burning  gold, 
The  jasper,  and  the  Tyrian  blue, 

The  sardonyx  and  emerald ;     - 
And  o'er  them,  as  the  soft  winds  crept, 
A  melody  from  each  was  swept, 
For  melody  within  each  slept, 

Harmoniously  blended ; 
And  never,  till  the  winds  gave  out, 
And  ceased  the  surf  its  tiny  shout, 

That  melody  was  ended  : 
Morn,  noon,  and  eve,  was  heard  to  be 
The  music  of  those  shells  and  sea. 
The  winds  went  upward  from  the  deep, 

The  winds  went  up  across  the  sand, 
And  never  did  the  sea- winds  sweep 

Over  a  lovelier  land  ; 

The  northern  seas,  the  southern  shores, 
>  / 

The  eastern,  and  the  western  isles, 


THE    ISLAND.  141 

Had  rifled  all  their  sweets  and  stores, 

To  deck  this  lovely  place  with  smiles; 
And  mounts  were  here,  and  tipped  with  green, 

And  kindled  by  the  glowing  sun, 
And  vales  were  here,  and  stretch'd  between, 

Where  waters  frolick'd  in  their  fun ; 
And  goats  were  feeding  in  the  light, 

And  birds  were  in  the  green-wood  halls, 
And  echoing  o'er  each  hilly  height, 

Was  heard  the  dash  of  waterfalls. 
O,  all  was  beauty,  bliss,  and  sound, 
A  Sabbath  sweetness  reigned  around  ; 
All  was  delight,  for  every  thing 
Was  robed  in  loveliness  and  Spring ; 
Color  and  fragrance,  fruit  and  flower, 
Were  here  within  this  Island-Bovver. 


142 


SHADOWS. 


I  HAD  a  very  funny  dream, 

One  night,  beneath  the  whispering  tree ; 
There  was  a  tree,  there  was  a  stream, 

And,  fair  as  moon  could  be, 
The  moon  her  solitary  beam 

Poured  on  that  brook  and  tree. 

I  saw  a  young  and  bright-eyed  boy, 

And  little  maiden,  playing; 
She  was  the  loveliest  thing — a  toy, 

A  bee,  or  bird,  a-Maying ; 
A  feeling  nothing  could  destroy, 

Kept  those  two  children  playing. 


SHADOWS.  143 

They  rambled  long,  they  rambled  wide, 
There,  'mid  green  fields  and  flowers  ; 

That  boy  was  ever  at  her  side, 
And  so  they  passed  the  hours  ; 

I  heard  him  call  the  maiden  bride, 
There,  'mid  green  fields  and  flowers. 


i 

And  she  was  pleased  to  be  his  bride, 

And  in  his  face  she  gazed  — 
Half  bashfully,  and  half  in  pride, 

As  at  herself  amazed  ; 
Yet  still  she  clung  unto  his  side, 

And  in  his  face  she  gazed. 

And  then  I  thought  there  was  a  wail  — 
The  moon  still  lent  its  ray,  — 

But  it  was  tremulous  and  pale, 
And  changeful  seemed,  and  gray; 

There  was  a  church-yard  in  a  vale-1— 
The  moon  still  lent  its  ray. 

And  there,  beneath  the  cold,  wan  light, 
Clasping  the  ivied  stone, 


144  SHADOWS. 

An  aged  man,  with  weeds  bedight, 
Stood  motionless  and  lone ;  — 

They  say,  that  old  man's  heart,  once  light. 
Lay  buried  'neath  that  stone. 


\ 


145 


THE     FOUNTAIN. 


WHAT  is  there  in  a  fountain  clear, 

What  is  there  in ;  a  song, 
That  I  should  sit  and  ponder  here, 

And  sit  and  ponder  long.5 

The  wave  wells  beautiful,  Vis  true, 
And  sparkles  in  the  sun; 

But  that  's  what  other  fountains  do, 
And  sparkle  as  they  run., 

The  wave  wells  beautifully,  and 

Sings  as  it  pours  along ; 
But  every  fountain  of  the  land,- 

Runs,  murmuring  a  song. 
10 


146  THE    FOUNTAIN. 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here, 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink? 

Why  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 
I  sit  me  here  and  think  ? 

The  robin  whistles  in  the  sky, 
The  squirrel  's  in  the  tree ; 

Yet  here  I  sit  me  moodily, 
My  gun  upon  my  knee  ; 

And,  sporting  round  the  openings 

Of  yonder  forest  green, 
The  golden  light  of  glancing  wings, 

At  intervals  is  seen ; 

And  forms  and  things  to  catch  the  eye, 
And  sounds  of  grove  and  grot ; 

They  pass  uninterruptedly  — 

•  .       : 
They  move,  yet  move  me  not. 

My  hound,  besides,  the  fit  has  caught, 
For,  looking  in  my  face, 

He  sees  his  master  thinks  of  naught 
So  little  as  the  chase. 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  147 

Then  what  is  it  that  keeps  me  here, 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 
Why  is  it  that,  a  worshiper, 

I  sit  me  here  and  think  P 

The  wave  runs  round,  the  wave  runs  bright, 

The  wave  runs  dancing  free, 
As  if  it  took  a  strange  delight 

A  dancing  wave  to  be. 

And  down  the  vale  it  goes,  a  brook, 

Over  a  golden  pave ; 
And  from  the  brink  the  cresses  look, 

And  dally  with  the  wave. 

And  every  hue  of  leaf  and  sky, 

And  forms  and  things  are  caught, 
Which  dance,  and  glance,  and  glitter  by, 

As  rapid  as  a  thought: 

And  now  the  sun  drops  down  the  west, 

And  Hesper  shines  afar; 
When  lo,  upon  the  fountain's  breast, 

Sparkles  a  mimic  star ! 


148  THE    FOUNTAIN. 

And  soft  the  reflex,  glimmering  out, 
Is  cut  a  thousand  ways, 

•As  there  the  bubbles  whirl  about, 
And  revel  in  the  blaze. 

And  far  along  the  sky  of  Even, 
The  clouds,  in  golden  dress, 

Have  painted  here  a  little  heaven, 
With  added  loveliness  — 

With  every  light  and  shade  so  true 
And  exquisitely  wrought, 

As  fancy  never,  never  drew, 
As  fancy  never  taught. 

And  now  the  woods  and  sky  are  one, 
And,  up  the  orient  driven, 

The  crescent  moon  hangs  off  upon 
1   • 

The  canopy  of  heaven  ; 

j 

And  round  her  come  a  troop  of  stars, 
And  round  her  comes  the  night ; 

And  o'er  her  face  the  clouds,  in  bars, 
Are  braided  by  the  light ; 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  149 

And  on  her  beams  the  Oreads  sail, 

And  revel  as  they  go ; 
And  little  warriors  clad  in  mail, 

And  Gnomes  —  a  fairy  show  ! 

And  every  other  combination 

With  poetry  agreeing, 
That  nonsense  and  imagination 

E'er  conjured  into  being. 

Odd'  fancies  !  yet  they  came  to  me, 

A  solitary  child,  — 
A  lover  of  the  waters  free, 

A  lover  of  the  wild,  — 

And  here,  I  were  a  traitor  vile, 

If,  though  I  mix  with  men, 
I  could  not  lose  the  man  awhile, 

And  play  the  boy  again. 

r 

Then  ask  you,  why  I  sit  me  here, 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink  ? 
And  ask  you  why,  a.  worshiper, 

I  sit  me  here  and  think  ? 


150 


PEN    AND    INK. 


I  DO  not  know,  I  do  not  know,  but  yet  I  cannot  think, 

That  earth  has  pleasures  sweeter  than  are^found  with  pen  and 

ink,  — 

This  whiling  off  an  idle  hour  with  torturing  into  rhyme 
The  pretty  thoughts,  and  pretty  words,  that  do  so  softly  chime. 

I  know  it  must  be  sad  for  such  as  cannot  make  the  verse 
Dash  gayly  off,  and  gallop  on,  delightfully  and  terse  ; 
But  when  the  thought  is  beautiful,  and  words  are  not  amiss, 
O,  tell  me  what  on  earth  can  bring  a  joy  so  pure  as  this  ! 

They  sadly  err,  and  slander  too,  this  lovely  world  of  ours, 
Who  say  we  gather  thorns  enough,  but  never  gather  flowers  ; 
Why,  look  abroad  on  field  and  sky,  there  is  a  welcome  there, 
And  who,  amid  such  happiness,  can  weep  or  think  of  care  i 


PEN  AND  INK.    •  151 

The  natural  world  is  full  of  forms  both  beautiful  and  bright, 
The  forest  leaves  are  beautiful,  there  's  beauty  in  the  light, 
And  all  that  meets  us  makes  us  feel  that  grieving  is  unkind, 
And  says,  be  happy  in  this  world,  and  fling  your  cares  behind. 

x  ,  *» 

The  mental  world  is  beauty  too,  and  decked  in  beauty  rare, 

Whate'er  we  see,  whate'er  we  dream,  we  find  it  imaged  there, 
A  halo  circles  all  that  is,  the  sprightly  and  the  tame, 

And  gives  to  "  airy  nothings  "  too,  a  dwelling  and  a  name. 

•C* 

I 

And  beauty,  such  as  only  breathes  upon  a  seraph's  lyre, 

Is  in  this  world,  and  comes  to  us,  and  gives  us  souls  of  fire ; 
We  love,  and  we  forget  the  ills  that  to  the  earth  belong, 
And  life  becomes  one  holy  dream  of  rapture  and  of  song  ! 

And  he  who  scribbles  verses  knows  (and  you  should  credit  him), 
That  this  is  but  a  picture  here  —  a  picture  dull  and  dim  — 
Of  that  delight  which  thrills  the  heart  of  him  who  can  "in  time,'' 
Arrest  the  thought,  and  give  it  word,  and  twist  it  into  rhyme. 

And  when  I  sigh  and  weep,  (which  things  will  happen  now  and 

then,) 

And  I  have  naught  to  do  but  stop,  and  then  begin  again, 
Why,  then  I  hie  me  to  my  desk,  and  sit  me  down  and  think, 
And  few  companions  pleasure  me,  as  these — my  pen  and  ink. 


152 


A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILD. 


I  CANNOT  say,  I  cannot  say,  my  beautiful  and  wild, 

I  've  ever  seen  so  fair  a  one,  as  thou,  my  pretty  child, — 

A  form  so  full  of  elegance,  a  cheek  where  roses  blow, 

And  a  forehead  where  the  glossy  curls  seem  braided  over  snow, — 

A  lip  whence  sounds  of  music  gush  that  might  with  easeunsphere 

Some  spirit  from  its  airy  halls,  and  witch  that  spirit  here. 

r 

When  first  thy  mother  gave  thee  me,  my  beautiful  and  wild, 
And  others  sought  to  gaze  upon  and  bless  the  pretty  child  ; 
And  thy  soft  lip  to  mine  was  press'd  and  thy  soft  hand  I  felt, 
And  felt  all  of  a  father's  heart  within  my  bosom  melt ; 
I  know  I  heaved  a  sigh,  for  there  was  sadness  in  my  joy, 
Thou  wert  so  very  beautiful,  my  smiling  little  boy. 


A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILD.  153 

Where'er  thou  go'st  there  seems  to  go  a  gladness  and  a  life, 

That  all  unfitted  is  for  this  dark  world  of  sin  and  strife ; 

Thou  dost  remind  me  of  the  flowers,  that  are  when  Spring  comes 

on, 
Thou  dost  remind  me  of  the  light,  when  comes  and  goes  the 

sun; 

Of  brooks   and  falling   waters,   when   they    with   the   pebbles 

* 
toy, 

Of  all  that  's  bright  and  beautiful,  my  smiling  little  boy. 

I  mingle  with  the  busied  world,  and,  when  I  find  it  vain, 

1  turn  me  to  my  happy  hearth  and  little  boy  again ; 

I  love  to  hear  him  shout  to  me,  I  love  his  airy  call, 

I  love  to  hear  his  little  step  go  patting  through  the  hall ; 

I  love  to  take  him  on  my  knee  and  fold  him  into  rest, 

As  doth  the  parent  bird  the  dove  she  shelters  with  her  breast. 

Thy  kind  complaints,  thy  boyish  talk,  thy  merriment,  my  boy, 
Crush  all  that  's  base  within  my  heart,  and  smooth  the  day's 

annoy; 

Where'er  1  go,  if  ills  assail,  and  Passion  plays  her  part, 
And  dark  Ambition  spreads  her  gauds  before  my  eye  and  heart ; 
And  I  one  moment  list  the  voice  that  proffers  me  the  crown  — 
I  think  me  of  thy  looks,  my -boy,  and  bid  the  tempter  down. 


154  A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILD. 

Yet  there  will  sometimes  come  to  me  a  thought  of  sadness  given, 
As  the  dark  cloud  streams  athwart  the  flush  that  tints  the  sky  of 

even  ; 

When  I  look  at  thee  and  think  of  thee  in  all  thine  artleesness, 
And  think  how  flowery  is  the  path  which  thy  young  foot  doth 

press ; 

For  I  know  that  eye  which  sparkles  now  may  suddenly  be  wet, 
And  the  earth,  that  looks  so  lovely  too,  may  be  a  desert  yet. 

And  yet  I  will  not  think  it —  no,  it  will  not,  cannot  be, 
That  fate  shall  ever  fling  its  shroud  of  blackness  over  thee  ; 
Thou  art  too  like  thy  mother,  child  —  she  would  not  harm  this 

breast, 

And  all  thy  days  have  been  too  like  the  holy  and  the  bless'd  ; 
Thou  canst  not  other  be  to  me,  than  this,  my  cradle  joy  — 
Thou  wilt  not  grieve  thy  father's  heart,  my  smiling  little  boy. 


155 


WINTER    SCENE    FROM    A    \VINDOAV, 


I  SAT  me  where  the  window  threw 
The  distant  landscape  into  view. 
The  snow  was  on  each  living  thing, 
The  birds  were  mute,  nor  m'oved  a  wing, 
And  'neath  a  garment  clear  and  cold, 
Each  flower  slept  lock'd  in  frozen  mould. 
Here,  long-drawn  vales  in  silver  white, 
Glistening,  were  offered  to  the  sight. 
Where  ran  the  hedge  or  old  stone  wall, 
The  icy  sheet  had  covered  all, 
And  all  along  the  rails,  and  hung 
Downward,  the  icicles  were  strung, 
And,  as  the  flashing  sun  rose  bright, 
They  seemed  like  crystals  in  the  light. 


156  WINTER    SCENE    FROM    A    WINDOW. 

Where  wound  the  maple  colonnade, 

The  leafless  boughs  still  cast  a  shade, 

Curious,  for  on  the  crust  of  snow 

They  vipers  seemed  tossed  to  and  fro. 

Where  ran  the  rill  in  early  Spring, 

Beneath  those  maples  glittering, 

Singing  and  dancing  as  the^  wave 

Went  bickering  o'er  its  sandy  pave, 

And  catching  on  it,  shadows  dim 

Of  violets  along  its  brim, 

Or  lily  fair  or  water-cress, 

That  stooped  its  cheek  for  a  caress, 

Now  o'er  that  gentle  stream  was  cast 

The  snow-ridge  by  the  mountain  blast, 

Till  all  the  valley  level  seemed  — 

Save  here  and  there  the  ice-bridge  gleamed. 

But  farther  down  that  valley-glen, 

The  brook-  burst  up  to  light  again, 

For  there,  pitched  from  its  dizzy  edge, 

The  wave  shot  down  a  rocky  ledge, 

And  foamed  and  thunder'd  through  the  brake. 

Until  its  waters  joined  the  lake. 

And  there  no  Fairy  in  her  cell, 

Had  dream'd  or  fancied  half  so  well, 


WINTER    SCENE    FROM    A    WINDOW.  157 

Or  half  so  beautiful  a  thing, 

Or  given  it  tint  and  coloring, 

As  that  wild  brook  had  fancied  there, 

And  fashion'd  in  the  frosty  air. 

That  brook  had  flung  on  either  side, 

Its  fairy  frost-work  far  and  wide, 

Till  upward  'mid  the  rocks  appeared 

A  fane  as  by  some  artist  reared, 

With  polished  shaft  and  architrave, 

And  glittering  porch  and  crystal  nave, 

And  gleaming,  as  the  light  shone  on, 

It  seem'd  a  palace  of  the  sun. 

Where  spread  the  lake  all  sheeted  wide, 

Sheer  to  the  ragged  clifTs  steep  side, 

Whose  hoary  summits  glitter'd  there 

Like  giants  in  the  frosty  air, 

The  light  laugh  came  upon  the  wind, 

And  all  that  spake  "the  vacant  mind." 

There  like  a  young  and  mettled  horse, 

The  skilful  skater  plies  his  force; 

Anon  he  shoots  and  wheels  and  turns, 

As  if  the  element  he  spurns ; 

As  if,  a  glorious  thing  of  air, 

His  own  proud  will  sustain'd  him  there ! 


158  WINTER    SCENE    FROM    A    WINDOW. 

And  now  again  he  circles  neat, 
And  wheels  and  wheels  again  more  fleet, 
Till  far  across  the  lake  he  swings, 
While  loud  and  shrill  his  iron  rings. 


159 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

(A     DESCRIPTIVE     SKETCH.) 

THE  Indian  Summer  has  come  again, 

With  its  mellow  fruits  and  its  ripeii'd  grain ; 

The  sun  pours  round  on  the  hazy  scene, 

His  rays  half  shorn  of  their  golden  sheen ; 

And  the  birds  in  the  thicks  seem  too  sad  to  sing, 

And  sad  is  the  sound  of  the  wild  wind's  wing. 

And  hither  and  thither  an  ash-leaf  sear, 

Goes  slowly  off  through  the  atmosphere  ; 

And  there  may  be  heard,  when  the  breeze  steals  out, 

The  hum  of  the  bee,  and  the  torrent's  shout ; 

And  the  caw  of  the  crow  wakes  the  soljtudes, 

And  the  hill-fox  barks  in  the  faded  woods. 


160  THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

And  over  the  hill  to  his  patch  of  grain, 

The  reaper  goes  with  his  empty  wain; 

His  lash  resounds,  his  wagon  rings, 

The  steep  reCchoes  the  catch  he  sings  ; 

And  the  long-drawn  vales  seem  to  take  the  strain, 

And  send  it  up  to  the  hill  again. 

%  r 

And  here,  where  late  the  dog-wood  threw 

Its  berries  forth  of  a  crimson  hue, 

And  deep  in  the  dell,  where  the  birch  was  seen 

With  its  fragrant  bark  and  tassels  green, 

The  colors  are  gone,  the  leaves  are  gray, — 

They  fall,  and  are  swept  by  the  brook  away. 

>  •       ( 

The  daisy  low  on  the  bank  is  lying, 
The  leaves  of  the  brier  are  dead  and  dying ; 
The  lea  has  never  a  blossom  blue, 
Where  late  the  rose  and  violet  grew ; 
And  life  is  passing  from  glade  and  glen  ;  — 
The  Indian  Summer  has  come  again. 


161 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "THE  PASTIME," 


AN  UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 


PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF  THE  WORLD   FAVORABLE   TO    PURITY 
OF    HEART. 

LIFE,  'neath  the  beautiful  and  o'erarch'd  sky, 
Claim'd  the  first  sanction  of  the  Deity, 
And  precedence  in  praise.     He  form'd  a  bower, 
First  in  the  open  fields ;  around  it  flung 
The  fairest,  sweetest,  undecaying  flowers ; 
And  o'er  it  bent  a  foliage  of  young  blossoms, 
That  every  wind  swept,  breathing  their  delights. 
Here  fashion'd  He  the  father  of  our  race, 
And,  in  his  bosom,  a  sweet,  nestling  dove, 
Its  fondness  its  protection.     Here  man  dwelt  .  — 
No  higher  offices  his  spirit  knew, 

Than  to  be  good  and  happy ;  taking  here 

^s 

11 


16*2  PRIMITIVE   LIFE    OF   THE   WORLD 

From  Nature  its  simplicity  of  thought, 
His  will  was  but  the  counterpart  of  Heaven's. 
Here  was  his  perfect  state;  no  towering  walls 
Blush'd  in  the  rosy  atmosphere ;  no  pave 
Echoed  beneath  his  tread ;  nor  bent  above  him 
A  fretted  canopy  of  man's  device ;  > — 
Yet  had  he  temples  —  ay,  more  glorious  ones, 
Than  man  can  fashion  with  his  proudest  thoughts  ! 
The  rocks  that  rose  around  him  were  the  fanes 
That  sent  his  eye  heavenward ;  his  gaudy  roof 
Was  a  soft  azure,  where  all  day  bright  clouds 
Fleck'd  its  clear  aspect,  and  at  evening  dwelt 
Thousands  of  guardian  stars ;  his  marble  pave 
Was  of  the  greenest  velvet,  where  from  tubes 
Of  every  hue  and  shape,  thousands  of  sweets 
Rose  to  his  senses.     Here  he  school'd  his  heart ;  — 
The  winds  that  danced  within  his  bower,  and  toss'd 
The  olive-boughs  about ;  the  rippling  sounds, 
That  from  the  innermost  groves  soft  met  his  ear  — 
The  chime  of  rivulets ;  the  angry  sound 
Of  wild  bees  struggling  in  the  flowers ;  the  shrill 
And  sweetly  modulated  symphonies 
Of  Paradise  birds ;  and  then  the  loud,  loud  roar, 
That  from  the  bursting  and  far-sounding  floods 


FAVORABLE    TO    PURITY    OF    HEART.  163 

Shook  his  whole  dwelling ;  —  these  had  power  to  please, 

And  with  celestial  influences  his  soul, 

Transfused,  buoy  upwards,  whilst  Heaven's  visitants, 

(Duly  commission'd,)  o'er  his  thankful  state 

Kept  watch,  and  every  secret  wish  forestall'd. 

And  when,  lost  Heaven's  bright  image,  man  no  more 
Might  walk  and  talk  with  God,  and  guards  angelic 
Thrust  him  from  Paradise,  and  flaming  swords 
Girt  its  bright  walls,  and  far  and  o'er  the  earth 
He  went  a  wanderer,  and  his  race  became 
As  are  the  multitude  of  sands,  or  leaves 
That  flutter  to  the  Autumn  blast  —  who  dwelt 
Where  he  had  his  great  Master's  works  in  view, 
And  heard  his  voice  as  those  works  speak  him,  kept 
A  heart  not  unlike  Eden's.     He  could  not, 
Gazing  upon  the  proud  hills  as  they  rose, 
But  think  of  him  who  rais'd  them.    Every  leaf 
That  fluttered  by  his  path-side,  and  each  flower 
With  all  its  delicate  tracery  of  hues, 
Told  him  a  hand  of  wonders.     If  he  heard 
The  wind  low  in  the  Summer  wood,  or  bird 
Singing  in  all  the  luxury  of  life, 
He  saw  a  hand  benevolent  that  gave 


164  PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF    THE    WORLD 

Life,  and  with  life  life's  joy.     And  every  brook, 

Leaping  as  if  to  speak  away  its  joy, 

Wrote  on  his  heart  the  same.     And  when  he  turn'd 

Into  himself,  where  all  was  evil  mix'd 

Up  with  the  good,  and  blinded  was  his  mind 

By  stern  transgression,  still  he  saw  writ  there 

The  hand  that  made  him,  and  that  would  take  back 

The  pure  and  lowly  heart.    And  at  calm  eve, 

Or  when  the  night  was  at  its  middle  watch 

And  earth's  great  heart  was  resting,  then  would  come 

Dreams,  and  he  saw  wing'd  angels,  and  they  talk'd 

Of  Love  yet  to  be  manifest,  and  won 

The  heart  to  gentle  confidence,  and  Faith 

Then  ruled  his  life.     And  every  thing  around, 

Nurtur'd  such  Faith  implanted,  and  Faith's  self 

Won  by  the  good  it  brought  with  it  —  for  joys 

Such  as  earth  knew  not  came  unto  the  heart 

Like  heavenly  messengers.     It  calm'd  the  soul 

When  troubles  rose.     It  breathed  upon  the  heart 

Chafed  by  its  passions.     In  the  solemn  hours 

When  darkness  wrapp'd  the  soul  it  was  a  light, 

And  when  the  poor  heart  broke  beneath  its  woes, 

Faith  bound  it  up  again.    It  seem'd  a  spring 

Pure  and  perennial,  the  spirit  long 


FAVORABLE    TO    PURITY    OF   HEART.  165 

Amid  the  thirsty  deserts  of  the  world 

Had  sought,  yet  sought  in  vain.     And  Faith  once  lent, 

/ 
It  saw  a  new  divinity  in  all 

That  God  had  made,  until  inanimate  things 

Spake  a  distincter  lesson.     The  skies  now, 

Seem'd  the  fair  face  of  Heavenly  Love  writ  o'er 

With  shining  characters.     The  earth  in  all 

Her  sights  and  sounds,  impress'd  his  heart  with  truth 

As  ne'er  before.     If  he  had  mark'd  God's  power 

In  the  proud  rocks  and  hills,  or  seen  his  skill 

Within  the  delicate  leaves,  or  shades  that  streak 

The  violet's  cup,  or  mark'd  his  love  in  all 

The  life  and  joyousness  that  ring  aloud 

At  morn  and  eve  from  thousand  emulous  throats 

And  bills  of  birds  in  concert  —  God  now  seem'd 

In  each  distincter  drawn,  and  his  voice  seem'd 

Audible,  as  if  had  Eden  come  once  more. 

Hence  have  the  nations  of  the  earth  who  dwelt 
Much  in  the  open  converse  of  God's  works, 
Been  most  like  God.     The  early  and  first  tribes, 
As  one  bound  in  their  patriarchal  head, 
Dwelling  'mid  open  fields,  or  with  the  rocks, 
Or  cliffs  where  wild  goats  sported,  or  on  high 


166    .  PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF    THE    WORLD 

Where  mountain-forests  swell'd  the  whirlwind's  roar, 

Preserv'd  amid  the  simple  things  they  saw, 

Simplicity  of  heart.     They  saw  not  here, 

Amid  God's  works,  earth's  artificial  laws, 

That  since  have  curs'd  society  ;  —  the  heart 

Simple  and  pure  and  free  and  innocent, 

Expanded,  and  its  own  benevolence 

Did  shape  it  to  the  laws  by  God  ordain'd, 

And  those  were  Love.     On  every  side  of  them 

Simplicity  was  seen ;  on  every  thing 

'T  was  writ  with  sunbeams.     What  was  there  on  high, 

As  the  eye  sought  the  heavens  ?     What  around, 

In  the  majestic  forest  in  repose, 

Or  shouting  to  the  strong  wind  ?     What  in  all 

The  stillness  and  the  purity  of  noon, 

Or  solemn  stillness  when  the  stars  were  born 

And  th6  moon  paled  in  heaven,  —  that  it  should  rouse 

The  baser  passions  —  envy  of  each  other, 

And  emulation  to  be  meanly  great, 

And  pride  that  loves  to  look  down  on  the  world, 

Or  avarice  to  eat  into  the  heart, 

Or  fierce  ambition  like  a  band  of  fire 

Bound  round  the  temples,  or  a  serpent  wreath'd 

About  the  heart  —  What  was  there  in  such  scenes, 


FAVORABLE   TO   PURITY    OF   HEART.  167 

To  let  these  or  the  tiger-powers  of  man, 

Forth  on  man's  self  and  others?     These  are  born, 

The  children  of  society,  —  of  men 

Coop'd  in  the  hollow  circuit  of  those  scenes 

Where  men  do  congregate,  and  fashion  laws 

More  terrible  than  those  of  blood,  that  bind 

Man  to  a  hollow  life.     These  were  not  felt, 

When  man,  a  free-born  lover  of  his  God, 

And  thus  of  self,  walk'd  forth  upon  the  earth, 

Noble  and  simple  —  noble  since  thus  simple  — 

And  had  few  wants,  save  such  as  were  supplied 

By  the  kind  hand  of  Heaven.     'T  was  God  in  Nature, 

That  kept  him  thus  from  folly,  as  he  keeps 

Whoever  dwells  amid  the  works  of  God, 

And  loves  to  wander  there  and  muse  his  praise. 

Why  has  the  world  forgot  the  virtuous  part 
Of  earth's  more  simple  life,  when  now  it  boasts 
Much  that  it  once  had  not,  and  has  the  means 
Of  usefulness  and  happiness  increas'd, 
And  might  still  offer  to  the  powers  on  higli 
Perhaps  a  purer  offering  than  the  heart 
In  the  simplicity  of  pastoral  days? 
God  meant  not  that,  by  ignorance  enchain 'd, 


168  PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF    THE    WORLD 

The  world  should  live.    He  meant  not  man  should  know 

No  life  more  complicate  than  good  men  knew 

In  earlier  times.     He  hath  design'd  to  raise 

Man  in  the  scale  of  intellectual  life, 

Where  he  shows  nobly,  godlike,  strong,  and  true 

To  the  divinity  that  works  within. 

But  why  with  knowledge  and  the  arts  of  life, 

Should  come  the  vices  like  a  just  loos'd  flood  — 

Fashion,  to  chain  men  up  by  foolish  laws  — 

And  Custom,  scarcely  less  a  fool  —  until 

Little  we  see  of  man's  first,  great  estate, 

Save  that  he  has  been  simple  once  and  pure  ? 

Why  as  the  Arts  start  forth,  and  Science  comes 

From  all  the  corners  of  the  world  with  stores, 

And  multiplies  the  innocent  means  of  good, 

And  would  thus  raise  man  from  his  simple  state, 

And  even  make  him  greater  than  himself — 

Surrenders  he  the  simple  dignity 

In  which  he  was  created  ?     Can  he  not 

Grow  wiser,  but  he  must  grow  foolish  too? 

Must  we  for  ever  write  it  on  the  world, 

4 

That  every  step  of  progress  carries  it 
Farther  from  its  original  ?     'T  is  true ! 
The  history  of  the  world  doth  write  it  out 


FAVORABLE    TO    PURITY    OF    HEART.  169 

In  lines  of  light,  that,  from  his  simple  state 

Taken  and  favor'd  with  the  arts  of  life, 

Man  doth  forget  the  simple  life  he  loved, 

Become  distorted,  monstrous,  most  corrupt, 

Till  by  one  big  recoil  he  is  flung  back 

From  whence  he  came.     Not  simple  though  and  pure 

As  he  was  taken,  but  with  vices  set, 

Like  roots,  into  the  substance  of  his  soul, 

Making  him  brutal,  deadly.     Egypt  once 

Came  from  the  simple  to  the  Civil  state  — 

Her  ruins  tell  her  story.     Israel, 

Favor'd  as  earth  had  never  been  of  God, 

Let  her  high  privileges  eat  into  her  soul, 

And  dash  her  like  an  eagle  into  dust. 

And  read  the  written  story  of  poor  Greece 

In  her  proud  temples  tow'ring  still  on  high  — 

See  how  she  bore  the  luxuries  of  life  ! 

Simple  and  pastoral  her  infant  days, 

The  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  o'er  all  her  vales, 

Her  flocks  brows'd  every  mountain,  and  her  sons, 

In  all  the  purity  of  simple  life, 

Fabled  her  fountains,  rocks,  hills,  woods,  and  streams, 

Till  every  spot  within  her  ample  shores 

Had  a  poetic  loveliness !     She  rose, 


170  PRIMITIVE    LIFE    OF    THE    WORLD 

Like  a  young  goddess,  beautiful  and  free, 

Her  name  a  beacon-light,  her  Arts  the  world's 

Envy,  her  glory  scarcely  less  than  Heaven's ; 

But  her  own  luxuries  ate  out  her  heart  — 

She  is  proud  Greece  no  more.     And  northward  send 

The  eye  across  the  Adriatic  flood  — 

The  proud  Republics  of  the  northern  gulf 

Tell  the  same  story.    And  where  westward  towers 

The  Seven-Hill'd  City,  mighty  in  her  ruins  — 

See  how  man  bears  the  change-  from  simple  life 

To  grandeur,  wealth,  and  power !     Her  infancy 

Was  beautiful,, and  simple,  and  most  pure, 

Her  fabulous  history  tells  of  happy  days, 

Her  later  page  true  glory,  yet  her  sun 

Sunk  from  the  nations.    It  remains  to  prove 

Whether  the  modern  world  shall  live  more  pure, 

Bless'd  with  the  opportunities  of  good 

Beyond  what  earth  has  known.     A  purer  light 

Broke  on  the  nations,  through  the  soul  of  man, 

When  God  rais'd  up  that  mighty  mind  whose  thoughts 

Woke  Europe  ;  —  and  intelligence  diffused, 

•         f 

Has  set  man  thinking  for  himself,  and  now 
A  single  nation  holds  a  dizzy  height  — 
Experiment  of  God.    Will  she  be  wise  ? 


FAVORABLE  TO  PURITY  OF  HEART.       171 

Shall  her  proud  privileges  of  truth  and  light 

But  dash  her  down  the  precipice  where  lie 

The  ancient  nations  ?     Would  it  may  prove  truth, 

That  earth  at  last  hath  reach'd  her  golden  age, 

And  she  shall  wound  and  pierce  her  God  no  more  ! 


AFRICA    COMPASSIONATED. 
/ 

ALAS  !  for  Africa,  ill-fated  land, 
Sweating  and  groaning  'neath  a  mountain  curse, 
And  by  ourselves  imposed  —  alas  !  for  thee. 
Alas!  for  thee,  insulted,  injured  race, 
Thy  skin  thine  only  crime,  for  which  thou  mak'st 
A  horrid  expiation,  —  sighs  and  tears, 
Groans  and  deep-seated  woe  —  alas  !  for  thee. 
I  know  not  but  I  prate,  but  to  my  mind, 
Some  awful  scourge,  and  from  Jehovah's  hand, 
Shall  rouse  this  nation  from  her  lethargy, 
And  write  her  doom,  —  shall  strip  off  her  disguise, 
The  which  she  has  so  speciously  assumed, 
And  hold  her  up  in  attitude  so  mean, 
So  vile,  so  damn'd,  the  world  shall  hiss  at  her  ; 
And  to  be  known  her  citizen,  were  but 


172  AFRICA   COMPASSIONATED. 

To  be  afflicted  with  some  leprous  itch, 

To  be  shut  out  from  sympathy,  and  held 

Accurs'd  of  all  mankind.     The  ancient  world 

Was  suffer'd  to  fill  up  her  cup  of  guilt, 

The  surer  to  be  damn'd.     The  man  of  God 

Lifted  his  staff;  and,  instant  at  the  word, 

Nilus  became  a  stagnant  pool — the  lakes 

And  rivers  gender'd  monsters  most  obscene  — 

And  from  the  quarters  of  the  heavens  came 

The  winds,  and,  on  their  mighty  wings  outspread, 

Locusts  in  armies  came.     The  whole  land  stank  — 

Men  rotted  in  the  eye  of  the  hot  sun  — 

Wither'd  was  every  herb  —  and  Famine  came 

To  do  its  ministry.     And  in  the  wild, 

When  murmur'd  loud  the  unregenerate  Jews 

And  made  them  idols, — plagues,  diseases,  snakes 

And  wing'd  with  lightning,  God  sent  down  to  them, 

And  cut  them  off.     The  cities  of  the  plain  — 

How  were  they  crush'd  !     The  heavens  roll'd  away, 

And  took  their  place  a  sky  of  liquid  fire ; 

And  driven  by  tempests,  fell  a  fiery  storm 

Of  blistering  fury  and  terrific  death  — 

Destroying  all.     Yet  these  were  innocent, 

Compared  with  us !     They  should  have  given  their  faith 


AFRICA    COMPASSIONATED.  173 

To  the  great  God — a  being  scarce  revealed, 
Save  by  the  light  within.     And  if  he  smote 
Thus  high  and  low  the  ancient  cities  —  those 
Unfavor'd  with  the  gift  of  prophecy,  — 
What  fate  is  ours,  the  Bible  in  our  hands  ! 
The  will  of  the  Incomprehensible, 
And  known  as  such  !     Upon  his  sovereign  justice, 
Such  guilt  as  ours  how  dreadful  its  demands ! 

It  cannot  be,  that  God  design'd  one  half 
Of  this  huge  world  should  lord  it  o'er  the  rest ! 
That  one  half  should  be  furnish'd  with  a  whip 
To  goad  the  other,  till  the  gift  of  life  — 
Heaven's  sweetest  gift  —  be  changed  into  a  curse  ! 
It  cannot  be,  that  difference  of  hue, 
Or  shape  of  limb,  or  difference  organic 
Of  brain,  if  such  a  difference  there  be, 
Gives  me  the  title  to  command  to  task 
Men  human  every  feeling,  and  exact 
Their  sweat  to  feed  and  pamper  my  delights  ! 
"  O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade  !  "  — 
So  sang  the  poet  as  none  else  have  sung, 
Whose  eye  was  pained  with  the  same  view  of  things 


174  AFRICA   COMPASSIONATED. 

Which  paineth  me.     His  heart  was  sick  with  grief, 
And  his  compassion  kindled  into  flame, 
It  made  the  poet's  harmony  more  sweet. 
And  for  myself,  methinks  it  were  far  better 
To  drag  life  out  in  some  deep  dungeon-cave, 
Where  the  wave  thunders  and  the  loud  winds  war ; 
Or  sleep  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 
,  On  some  far  jut  of  isolated  land ; 
Than  here  —  surrounded  by  the  arts  of  life 
And  its  dependencies  —  live  where  the  law, 
The  first  great  law  that  's  written  on  the  heart, 
Is  disregarded  every  flying  hour. 
O  !  I  would  sooner  beg  from  door  to  door  — 
Yea,  I  would  sooner  starve  on  the  highway 
And  go  to  Heaven  a  pauper,  than  borne  hence 
From  beds  of  softness  and  luxurious  ease, 
The  product  of  my  slaves !     Yet  Justice  lives, 
And  sin,  though  God  permit  it  for  wise  ends, 
He  will  not  sanction  it.     Who  plays  with  death, 
Will  find  bis  pleasure  is  at  such  a  risk 
As  Wisdom  scorns  to  run.     Who  madly  sports 
Upon  a  precipice  and  thinks  it  safe  ? 
Or  who  plays  with  the  deadly  basilisk, 
And  is  not  bitten?     God  hath  so  advised, 


AFRICA    COMPASSIONATED.  175 

And  set  in  train  his  secret  agencies 

In  this  his  world  —  that,  when  his  creatures  fool, 

And  set  their  own  against  his  righteous  will, 

They  strike  a  spring,  disguised  from  mortal  sight, 

Which  worketh  an  infallible  result, 

And  that  is  vengeance.     Can  this  nation  chain 

Three  million  wretched  beings,  bone  and  blood  — 

And  children  of  the  soil — and  feel  they  do 

Exact  such  lengths  at  no  important  risk  ? 

Sleeps  she  not  o'er  a  subterraneous  mine, 

Which  some  slight  circumstance  beyond  her  ken 

Shall  spring,  and  shake  her  pillars  to  their  fall  ? 

We  boast  us  free  !  and  we  extend  that  right 

Free  and  unqualified,  to  every  man  ! 

None  are  exempt,  save  such  as  stock  our  jails  ! 

Talk  we  of  freedom  ?  blush  America  ! 

Blush  at  the  thought,  and  give  it  tongue  no  more  ! 

Or,  if  thou  dost  —  think  of  that  abject  race, 

Chain'd  to  the  earth  as  if  a  part  of  it, 

And  sold  as  common  cattle  in  our  midst  ! 

I  tremble  for  my  country,  and  her  laws, 
And  her  prosperity,  which  to  my  heart 
Is  dearer  than  mine  own,  while  her  great  guilt, 
Now  like  an  incubus  that  threats  to  crush  her, 


176  AFRICA   COMPASSIONATED. 

Is  still  increasing.     Slavery  's  a  disease  — 

A  cancer,  which  ye  cannot  scarify, 

Or  med'cine.to  its  cure.     The  lance  must  needs 

Go  deep  beneath  the  surface,  and  the  whole 

Must  be  cast  from  us,  or  't  is  best  to  let 

The  poison  work  until  the  patient  die. 

This  nation  is  afflicted  with  this  pest  — 

This  cancer;  and  though  still  its  ravages 

Molest  a  portion  only,  yet,  insidious, 

It  winds  itself  through  the  whole  life  and  frame, 

And  threats  to  grow  upon  the  very  heart. 

One  effort  then  is  needed  .to  effect 

Complete  emancipation, —  One  united 

And  vigorous  effort  by  the  nation  made, 

Will  save  us,  —  Else  we  linger  to  our  death, 

And  perish  like  sick  idiots,  who  knew 

The  way  to  safety  and  neglected  it. 

There  is,  and  nourish'd  in  each  human  breast, 
Although  the  heart  be  ignorant  of  the  same, 
An  innate  thirst  for  liberty  —  a  spark 
Which  God  implanted  j  and  though  moral  night 
And  mental  slavery  hold  terrific  sway, 
It  can  be  fann'd  into  a  Same.     Ye  masters  ! 
Think  ye  that  'mid  those  crowds  ye  whip  along, 


AFRICA    COMPASSIONATED.  17' 

As  destitute  of  all  the  faculties, 

Exalted  feelings,  and  high  grasping  thoughts 

Which  make  the  man ;  those  crowds  ye  auctioneer 

As  cattle,  and  e'en  by  the  chair  of  State ; 

Ay  !  so  contiguous  to  the  sacred  halls 

Of  legislation,  that  the  learned  Judge, 

If  he  but  list,  may  hear  the  hammer  fall, 

And  hear  the  bargain'd  wretch  shriek  as  his  heart 

Is  broken,  and  his  misery  complete;  — 

Think  ye,  that  'mid  those  crowds,  some  circumstance 

Shall  never  fire  the  spark  of  liberty, 

And  to  your  downfall !     O  !  that  time  will  corne, 

And  Justice  take  the  whip  in  her  own  hands, 

When  there  will  be  a  horrid  expiation. 

I  thank  my  God  that  he  has  cast  my  lot, 

Where  lash  of  slavery  is  never  heard, 

To  pain  the  ear  and  quiver  through  the  heart ! 

That  the  warm  blush  of  honorable  shame  — 

Shame  for  our  country,  mantles  on  our  cheeks 

E'en  at  the  name  !     That  pity  here  distils 

The  tears,  as  pure  as  those  which  angels  weep 

At  human  sin  —  which  fall  upon  the  wounds 

Of  the  poor  slave,  at  mention  of  his  wrongs  ! 
12 


178 


THE    POET    AND   THE    SPIRIT    OF    JOY. 


WHERE  art  thou  from  ? 

"  Over  the  lake, 
Over  the  green  trees, 

Over  the  brake ; 
Over  the  meadows, 

Over  the  plain, 
Over  the  mountains, 

Over  the  main. 

v  '       • 
"  From  a  sweet  maiden's  breast 

I  too  have  come, 
Out  from  a  boy's  heart 

Laughing  at  gloom ; 


THE    POET    AND    THE    SPIRIT    OF    JOY.  179 

Out  from  a  wild  bird's  song, 

Out  from  the  breeze, 
Out  from  the  soft  white  clouds 

Floating  at  ease. 

"  Out  from  a  lover's  heart, 

Hope  beating  there, 
Off  from  a  warrior's  plume 

Tipt  like  a  star ; 
Out  from  a  Christian's  eye 

In  death  low  lying, 
Like  earth's  first  champion, 

Death  stern   defying. 

"  From  the  Spring's  breath  too 

Coming  away, 
From  the  full  Summer 

In  its  array  ; 
From  the  gay  Autumn  winds 

Tossing  leaves  sear  and  dry, 
And  from  old  Winter  too, 

Scowling  on  high. 


180  THE    POET    AND    THE    SPIRIT    OF    JOY. 

"  In  each  and  all  things 

Something  I  see, 
Giving  my  spirit  wings, 

And  my  heart  glee ; 
From  these,  one  and  all, 

Have  I  come  here, 
Meet  then  my  festival  — 

Dry  up  the  tear." 

So  spake  the  spirit, 

Linger'd  awhile, 
Then  pass'd  away — yet 

Did  my  heart  smile ; 
Look'd  I  on  earth  again, 

Look'd  on  the  sky, 
And  the  whole  wide  scene  round 

Laugh'd  to  my  eye  ! 


181 


"HOPE      ON." 


DREAMS  there  are  that  sometimes 

Come  to  us  in  sorrow, 
Giving  us  the  sunshine 

Of  a  sweet  to-morrow ; 
Telling  us  to  press  on, 

Fearless  to  the  last, 
Doubting  never,  never, 

Sorrows  will  be  past. 

Sorrow  thus  becometh 

Oft  a  fount  whence  gushes 

Wisdom  like  the  light 

Which  from  heaven  rushes ; 


182  "  HOPE    ON." 

Mighty  lessons  learn  we 
Of  the  mighty  Plan, 

Creating  and  controlling, 
In  its  mercy,  man. 

Thou  who  sitt'st  in  sadness, 

Seeing  nothing  bright, 
Deeming  life  all  madness, 

And  its  day  all  night, 
O,  if  thou  "in  patience 

Dost  possess  thy  soul/' 
Trembling,  yet  still  trusting 

Th'  Infinite  control  — 

Thou,  amidst  thy  sorrows, 
Shalt  a  light  behold, 

Purer  than  the  dawn's  flush, 
Sweeter  than  its  fold; 

Thou  shall  hear  a  music, 

As  was  never  heard, 
f 

Save  when  Love,  most  Mighty, 

In  the  heart  is  stirr'd ! 


183 


"  THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  BOUGH  STIRR'D. ' 


THL  leaves  on  the  bough  stirr'd, 

Are  fading  and  falling, 
And  the  wind  and  the  wood-bird 

Are  mournfully  calling ; 
And  music  around  us, 

Of  landscape  and  river, 
And  feelings  that  bound  us, 

Are  passing  for  ever. 

The  mists  of  the  mountain, 
With  morning  upspringing, 

The  chime  of  the  fountain, 
Its  melody  ringing; 


184    "  THE  LEAVES  ON  THE  BOUGH  STIRI^D.' 

The  foam  where  the  river  burst 

Up  to  the  day, 
And  all  by  the  sweet  stream  nurs'd, 

Passing  away. 

So  hearts  we  have  cherish'd, 

When  life  was  before  us, 
Are  grown  cold  or  perish'd, 

As  years  have  roll'd  o'er  us ; 
And  we  look  in  the  faces, 

Once  glowing  with  gladness, 
And  we  find  in  their  places, 

But  sorrow  and  sadness. 

O,  life  1  it  is  tearful, 

We  're  all  of  us  sighing ; 
The  moment  we  're  cheerful, 

That  moment  we  're  dying; 
And  all  we  have  tasted, 

And  all  we  have  spoken, 
Are  hopes  —  that  are  wasted, 

And  hearts  —  that  are  broken. 


185 


LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIMS    AT     NEW    HAVEN. 


How  peaceful  smiled  that  Sabbath  sun, 
How  holy  was  that  day  begun, 
When  here,  amid  the  dark  woods  dim, 
Went  up  the  Pilgrim's  first  low  hymn ! 

Hush'd  was  the  stormy  forest's  roar, 
The  forest  eagle  scream'd  no  more, 
And  far  along  the  blue  wave's  side, 
The  billow  murmur'd  where  it  died. 

The  young  bird  cradled  by  its  nest, 
Its  matin  symphony  repress'd, 
And  nothing  broke  the  stillness  there, 
Save  the  low  hymn  or  humbler  prayer. 


186     LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIMS    AT    NEW    HAVEN. 

The  red  man,  as  the  blue  wave  broke 
Before  his  dipping  paddle's  stroke, 
Paus'd  and  hung  list'ning  on  his  oar, 
As  the  hymn  came  from  off  the  shore. 

) 

Look  now  upon  the  same  still  scene, 
The  wave  is  blue,  the  turf  is  green, 
But  where  are  now  the  wood  and  wild, 
The  Pilgrim  and  the  forest  child  ? 

The  wood  and  wild  have  pass'd  away, 
Pilgrim  and  forest  child  are  clay, 
And  here  upon  their  graves  we  stand, 
The  children  of  that  Christian  band. 

O,  while  upon  this  spot  we  stand, 
The  children  of  that  Christian  band, 
Be  ours  the  thoughts  we  owe  this  day, 
To  our  great  fathers  pass'd  away. 

By  prayer  and  contemplation  led, 
Be  ours  by  their  brave  spirits  fed ; 
Be  ours  their  efforts  and  their  aim, 
Their  truth,  their  glory,  and  their  name  ! 


187 


CENTENNIAL   HYMN. 

SUNG    AT  THE    CELEBRATION,    NEW   HAVEN,    MARCH, 

Lo,  we  are  gath'ring  here, 
Now  in  the  young  green  year, 

Those  days  to  sing, 
Which  did  the  ocean  o'er, 
Here  to  New  England's  shore, 
Those  noble  souls  of  yore, 

Our  fathers,  bring ! 

Here,  where  now  temples  rise, 
Knelt  they,  beneath  these  skies, 

The  woods  among ; 
And  to  the  murmuring  sea, 
And  to  the  forest  free, 
The  home  of  liberty, 

Echoed  their  song. 


188  CENTENNIAL    HYMN. 

* 

Make  theirs,  O  God,  our  fame ! 
Worthy  to  bear  their  name, 

O,  may  we  be  ! 
So  as  each  gladsome  Spring 
Comes  with  its  blossoming, 
Loud  shall  our  anthems  ring, 
For  them  and  Thee  ! 

Lives  not  then  in  our  veins, 
Speak  not  our  battle-plains, 

A  blood  like  theirs  ? 
Ay,  anil  from  this  same  sod, 
To  the  same  Father-God, 
Fearing  no  tyrant's  rod, 

Ascend  our  prayers. 

Theirs  was  the  godlike  part, 
Theirs  were  the  hand  and  heart, 

Trust-tried,  though  few; 
Grant  that  our  souls  be  led, 
Thinking  of  our  great  dead, 
And  by  their  spirits  fed, 

To  deeds  as  true  ! 


CENTENNIAL    HYMN.  189 

So  doth  the  eaglet,  nurs'd 
High  where  the  thunders  burst, 

Gaze  with  fixed  eye, 
Till  gain'd  its  parent's  form, 
With  the  same  instinct  warm, 
It  breasts  the  same  dark  storm, 

And  cleaves  the  sky. 


190 


A    SABBATH    MORNING. 


A  SABBATH  morning !  calm  and  bright 

The  sun  goes  up  the  eastern  sky, 
And  flings  abroad  a  fairy  light, 

On  every  thing  that  meets  the  eye  ; 
The  mountains  look  more  grand  to-day, 

The  valleys  have  a  sweeter  green, 
The  waters  have  a  wilder  play, 

The  birds  are  singing  to  the  scene. 

And  then  the  sort  of  solemn  hush 
That  seems  to  lie  on  every  thing, 

In  which  a  thousand  feelings  gush 
Anew  as  waters  from  their  spring ; 


A    SABBATH    MORNING.  191 

It  may  be  fancy,  yet  we  deem 

There  is  a  holiness  in  this, 
And  we  can  yield  us  to  the  dream, 

And  think  we  find  a  purer  bliss. 

We  go  abroad,  and  seem  to  find 

A  sort  of  wonder  in  all  things ; 
We  have  more  energy  of  mind, 

The  spirit  seems  to  mount  on  wings  \ 
O,  let  it  like  some  eastern  bird, 

Mount  up  and  soar  into  the  sky, 
Where  angel  harps  and  hands  are  stirr'd, 

And  angel  music  wanders  by. 

And  we  shall  gain  some  newer  power, 

To  press  along  the  path  of  life  — 
More  peaceful  in  the  peaceful  hour, 

More  earnest  in  the  fiery  strife ; 
Till  the  great  work  of  Faith  is  done, 

Life's  action,  its  endurance  too ; 
And  the  clouds  melt  into  the  sun, 

And  Heaven  in  glory  comes  to  view  ! 


THE    MARTYR    MAID. 


THAT  innocent  voice  had  weaker  grown, 

That  voice  of  love  arid  song, 
Which  so  oft,  at  twilight's  soothing  hour, 

On  the  soft  winds  played  along; 
And  the  placid  light  of  the  deep  blue  eye, 

And  the  placid  hue  of  the  cheek, 
Ah,  these  proclaim'd  to  our  aching  hearts, 

A  sorrow  we  might  not  speak  ! 

They  had  laid  her  form  on  the  couch  of  snow, 

All  beautiful  in  death, 
And  the  flowers  they  had  wreathed  in  her  auburn  locks 

Gave  a  perfume  like  her  breath ; 


THE    MARTYR    MAID.  193 

And  the  vesper  star  came  softly  forth, 

And  threw  its  silvery  ray, 
Like  a  seraph's  robe,  in  the  spirit's  land, 

O'er  that  cold  and  pulseless  clay. 

1  • 
And  they  laid  her  in  the  cold,  cold  earth, 

Beneath  the  forest's  shade, 
Like  a  floweret  wither'd  upon  its  stalk, 

In  a  lone  and  fragrant  glade ; 
And  there  was  weeping  then  of  stranger  eyes, 

Of  youth  and  maidens  gay, 
For  we  all  of  us  grieved  that  so  sweet  a  maid 

Should  so  soon  have  pass'd  away. 

And  I  wept,  as  I  gazed  on  that  innocent  one, 

A  martyr  to  her  heart, 
And  my  fancy  painted  the  ruthless  hand, 

That  had  hurled  the  cruel  dart; 
I  thought  how  very,  very  drear 

This  world  hath  all  become, 
When  the  beautiful  ones  sent  down  from  Heaven, 

Here  may  never  find  a  home. 
13 


194 


EXTRACTS    FROM    "  CHILDHOOD," 


AN   UNPUBLISHED    POEM. 


INTRODUCTION. 

FROM  various  wanderings  and  experience  vain, 
I  come  to  view  my  childhood's  home  again ; 
Childhood,  that  like  the  Summer  light's  last  play, 
More  lovely  is  the  more  it  fades  away,' 
And  to  which  turns  the  heart  with  feeling  true, 
And  finds  some  present  pleasure  in  the  view. 
Oft  has  the  poet  framed  on  this  his  verse, 
And  oft  he  will  its  little  joys  rehearse ; 
The  sweetest  songs  we  ever  hear,  are  those 
That  sing  its  little  joys  and  little  woes; 
Varied  the  verse,  of  varied  excellence, 
Musical  some,  and  sometimes  rough  with  sense, 


INTRODUCTION.  195 

Yet  each  and  all,  or  with  or  without  art, 
Comes  with  a  charm  and  melts  into  the  heart; 
It  only  needs  the  poet  be  sincere, 
And  smooth  or  not,  't  is  music  in  the  ear. 

Why  is  it  that,  the  world  around,  there  is 
This  simple  source  of  innocence  and  bliss,  — 
Remembrance  sweet  of  those  dear  days  we  spent 
On  the  bless'd  earth,  in  meekness  and  content, 
And  riever  dream'd  of  aught  save  pleasure's  store, 
And  every  day  so  rich  we  ask'd  no  more  ? 
You  go  afar  to  any  clime  or  sea, 
Ask  of  the  high  or  of  the  low  degree, 
Turn  to  the  peasant  with  his  clay-built  shed, 
Ask  of  the  beggar  weeping  for  his  bread ; 
Or  go  to  him  from  whom  has  fled  the  pride, 
By  which  alone  life's  last  ills  are  defied  — 
The  worthless,  swearing  wretch,  with  staggering  feet, 
His  home  the  gutter  or  the  public  street ; 
Yes,  and  where  guilt  and  crime  have  sunk  in  shame 
All  there  is  found  in  man,  except  the  name, — 
And  he  shall  tell  you  of  this  simple  joy, 
Safe  from  the  world  which  nothing  can  destroy ; 


196  CHILDHOOD. 

Safe  from  the  power  of  sin,  and  all  that  comes 
Loading  his  life  with  wretchedness  and  glooms, 
Flashing  sometimes  its  light  across  his  path, 
Staying  an  instant,  certain,  hurrying  wrath. 
Why  is  it  that  the  poor  lost  wretch  from  far, 
Borne  to  this  country  from  his  natal  star, 
The  child  of  Ireland,  crush'd  into  the  dust, 
Willing  to  be  a  wretch,  because  he  must, — 
Or  the  poor  peasant  from  his  highland  shed, 
Where  the  low  streams  by  Alpine  snows  are  fed, 
Child  of  those  heights  for  ever  pure  and  free, 
Stern  as  the  rocks  that  guard  his  liberty, 
Yet  now  the  cast-off  heart  of  Switzerland, 
Fresh  from  the  deck  and  wandering  on  our  ,strand,  • 
Why  as  he  looks  and  sets  his  steps  away, 
Where  wild  Missouri's  springs  first  see  the  day, 
And  blushes  there  his  home  amid  the  wood, 
Fresh  as  an  Eden  in  the  solitude, 
And  climb  anew  young  prattlers  round  his  knees, 
And  new  delights  and  new  associates  please -•- 
Starts  he  so  oft,  and,  with  hjs  brawny  hand, 
Dashes  the  tears,  at  thoughts  of  father-land^? 
Or  why  doth  he,  our  own  serf —  shame  that  such 
Should  curse  a  land  that  dares  to  boast  so  much  — 


INTRODUCTION.  197 

Sing  of  its  freedom,  shout  it  till  it  roar 

Like  to  a  thunder-peal  on  every  shore,  — 

The  poor,  crush'd,  Southern  slave  —  why  will  he  turn, 

And  look  in  vain  o'er  the  white  waves  and  mourn  ? 

Landed  upon  a  shore  that  looks  afar, 

As  if  beam'd  on  it  Heaven's  most  genial  star ; 

So  vast,  so  beautiful,  so  fill'd  with  all 

That  gives  the  heart  perpetual  festival ; 

Here  orange-groves  stand  ripening  in  the  sun, 

And  there  the  fig  and  lime  successive  run ; 

Here  the  tall  canes  reflecting  heaven's  sweet  sheen, 

And  "  dropping  gums  "  on  every  side  are  seen ; 

There  the  low  rice-fields  white  as  tossing  snow, 

Or  flaunting  cotton  with  e'en  whiter  blow,  — 

Why  will  he  sigh  for  his  lost  groves  again, 

Afric's  dull  shore,  and  low  and  barren  plain  ? 

And  why,  whipp'd  to  his  daily  toil,  until 

Nothing  is  left  his  cup  of  grief  to  fill,  — 

Trampled  on  and  imbruted  more  and  more, 

Curs'd  with  the  dawn  and  when  the  day  1s  o'er, — 

Goes  he  so  oft  alone,  and,  stretch'd  on  earth, 

Talks  to  the  stars  and  mutters  of  his  birth  ? 

In  all  this  longing  of  each  class  and  zone, 

For  the  first  light  of  life  for  ever  gone ; 


198  CHILDHOOD. 

,  % 

For  this  strange  power  within,  to  keep,  alway, 

One  little  spot  where  all  is,  must  be,  day  — 
Though  home  be  lost,  and  tyrants  threat,  and  thongs 
Cut  to  the  bone,  and  felt  are  life's  worst  wrongs ; 
See  we  th'  Eternal  goodness  that  design'd, 
And  made  man  what  he  is  in  heart  and  mind ; 
Feel  we,  do  man  his  worst  until  we  die, 
A  God  there  is  of  mercy  in  the  sky  ! 

But  turn  we  to  the  object  of  our  verse, 
And  childhood's  little  joys  and  woes  rehearse ; 
Come,  faithful  Memory,  with  pensive  eye, 
And  all  its  lost  remembrancers  descry, 
And  give  them  as  they  were  to  Fancy's  eye, 
And  let  us  paint  them  as  the  train  moves  by  ! 
But  will  a  verse  so  simple,  in  these  days 
A  reader  find,  or,  more,  a  critic's  praise? 
When  other  schools  and  names  of  verse  have  come, 
And  crowded  out  the  good  old  songs  of  home  ? 
And  when  such  masters  on  this  same,  sweet  theme, 
Have  seized  their  harps  of  fire  and  dared  to  dream  r 
And  e'en  when  masters  of  the  reigning  schools 
Are  on  the  stage,  and  make,  and  prove  their  rules : 


INTRODUCTION.  199 

Ay,  we  shall  hope,  —  and  why  ?  because  the  theme 

Is  in  itself  a  sweet  poetic  dream ; 

One  not  confined  to  a  mere  man  or  class, 

Nay,  nor  a  single  nation  in  the  mass  ; 

But  to  the  world  at  large  who  have  a  heart, 

And  on  this  theme  can  feel  the  minstrel's  art. 

Yes,  and  where  art  is  not,  but  only  fire 

Such  as  did  earth's  first  minstrelsy  inspire ; 

Where  was  the  simple  feeling  o'er  the  lay, 

Thus  calling  nature  only  into  play ; 

Here  have  we  hope  the  general  heart  will  give 

The  minstrel  that  for  which  alone  we  live  — 

Praise  for  the  pleasure  felt  along  the  veins, 

Seen  in  the  eye  as  pour  aloud  his  strains, 

Seen  on  the  lip,  that  quivers  with  sweet  joy, 

As  the  man  dies,  and  lives  again  the  boy. 

And  this  sweet  feeling  may  we  dare  to  claim  — 

A  heart  that  's  in  the  theme  we  bring  for  fame  ? 

Yes,  for  the  dearest  objects  that  we  view, 

Lie  far  away  clothed  with  the  past's  sweet  hue  ;  — 

The  valley  where  the  young  eye  open'd  first, 

The  home  in  which  the  pensive  thought  was  nurs'd ; 

The  proud  old  hills  that  rose  around  it  high, 

Blushing  first  to  the  east,  last  to  the  sky  ; 


200  CHILDHOOD. 

The  small  bright  rivulet  that  comes  away, 

Out  from  the  north  upon  the  mead  to  play  — 

Joins  with  the  larger  stream  and  mingles  white, 

Rolls  through  the  vale  afar  its  course  of  light ; 

The  forest  towering  on  the  hills,  the  groves, 

The  glens,  the  rocks,  and  all  the  poet  loves ; 

And  last,  not  least,  the  gentle  lake  that  fills, 

Hid  like  a  wren's  nest  in  the  depth  of  hills  ;  — 

These  are  the  objects  that  the  poet  loy^ed 

With  the  first  dawning  thought,  when  thought  was  moved 

These  are  the  objects,  borne  by  him  along 

The  track  of  life  up  to  this  hour  of  song ; 

And  though  plain  be  the  theme,  and  rough  the  line, 

Feeling  and  love  for  these  shall  in  it  join. 

Come  then,  sweet  Fancy,  ope  thy  joyous  eye, 

And  see  in  light  what  Memory  doth  supply;  , 

And  let  us  roam  about  these  scenes,  and  string 
t 

Into  rough,  truthful  verse,  the  thoughts  that  spring. 


THE    FRUIT-YARD. 

SHALL  we  not  first,  a  little  stream  that  flows 
Back  of  the  house  and  through  the  fruit-yard  goes, 


THE    FRUIT- YARD.  201 

Sing,  or  attempt  to,  bidding  that  sWeet  stream 

Impart  its  music  to  the  present  theme  ? 

That  little  stream  how  many  mills  has  turned, 

Shaped  by  the  boy,  in  such  craft  wisely  learned ! 

How  many  little  mud-dams  there,  o'er  which 

The  gather'd  waters  fled  with  merry  pitch, 

Tuning  thus  early  Fancy's  later  call, 

To  woo  the  cataract  and  waterfall .' 

And  what  a  joyous,  flaunting  sisterhood 

Of  little  flowers  that  on  its  borders  stood ; 

First  to  come  out  when  came  the  breath  of  May, 

And  last  of  all  the  flowers  to  pass  away  ! 

And  what  bouquets  and  garlands  winded  there, 

To  deck  some  little  brow  we  then  thought  fair, 

And  of  which  the  presumptuous  boy  did  dare 

Dream,  as  do  older  boys  or  misses  fair ! 

And  did  not  that  sweet  streamlet  tossing  there, 

Whirling  in  eddies,  making  bubbles  fair, 

First  strike  the  chord  that  since  has  rung,  and  will 

King  in  my  heart,  until  that  heart  is  still  ? 

Ay,  and  I  never  hear  of  music  now, 

But  will  come  back  that  same  stream's  pleasant  flow. 

—  Rivulet  bright !  I  stood  beside  thee  late ; 

Where  was  the  change?  methought  there  was  such,  great ; 


202  CHILDHOOD. 

i       ' 

Thou  didst  flow  on  as  thou  wert  wont  to  go, 
Yet  thine  to  me  was  not  as  thy  first  flow ; 
At  least,  some  tears  were  by  and  o'er  thee  shed, 
And  never  boy's  bright  eye-drop  stain'd  thy  bed ! 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

NEXT  turn  we  where  a  small  brown  hut  appears, 
And  needing  paint  to  hide  its  seams  and  years ; 
Some  of  its  clapboards  whistling  in  the  wind, 
The  fence  broke  down  that  us'd  to  run  behind ; 
A  shatter'd  glass  or  two  may  there  be  seen, 
And  chimney  noteh'd,  where  needed  brick  has  been. 
That  is  the  school-house  —  pleasant,  loved  old  place, 
With  all  its  tedious  hours  and  sour  disgrace ;  — 
Much  can  it  boast  that  's  pleasant  now  to  see, 
The  rough  parts  hid  or  lost  to  memory  ; 
Much  does  the  fancy  conjure  up  that  now 
Pleases  the  heart  and  smooths  the  ruffled  brow, 
And  which  the  man,  grown  gray,  looks  long  upon, 
And  almost  wishes  life  were  but  begun. 
He  sees  the  pleasant  mornings  when  we  went 
Slow  to  the  school,  by  faithful  parent  sent; 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE.  203 

He  sees  the  little  crowd  slow  gather  there, 
Of  different  age  and  sex,  and  smutch'd  or  fair, 
And  all  at  that  one  door  just  enter  in, 
With  looks  so  sad  it  seems  a  place  of  sin. 
And  yet  some  brighter  moments  too  are  seen, 
And  brighter  looks  that  by  that  door  have  been ; 
For  not  all,  as  I  think,  did  deem  the  place 
One  of  mere  toil,  or,  what  is  worse,  disgrace;  — 
Some  little  lad,  we  think,  among  the  rest, 
Comes  to  the  door,  of  joyous  thought  possess'd, 
As  if  he  deem'd  he  were  not  all  a  slave, 
Who  loved  a  book  or  e'en  the  teacher  grave ; 
And  in  whose  face  is  plainly  seen  the  mind, 
Perhaps  in  after  years  to  serve  his  kind. 
But  enter  now,  and  what  are  objects  there  ? 
The  teacher's  desk,  the  rusty  stove,  and  chair; 
The  desk  around  the  walls,  the  seats  unback'd, 
Bedaub'd  with  ink,  with  jack-knife  freely  hack'd; 
The  inner  tier  of  lower  benches  too, 
Where  sat  the  smaller  children  in  review, 
Perk'd  up  the  long  day  through,  save  when,  alway, 
Each  once  must  rise,  and  shriek  out  b,  a,  ba! 
And  doth  not  Memory  furnish  us  with  some 
Teacher,  among  the  crowds  of  them  that  come, 


204  CHILDHOOD. 

p 

Whom  we  remember  with  some  kinder  thought, 

Than  is  too  oft  by  name  of  teacher  brought  ? 

Ah,  each  remembers  one  among  that  crowd, 

That  us'd  to  praise  him  most,  that  made  him  proud ; 

And  oft  would,  if  the  grace  was  not  too  plain, 

Pass  by  his  fault,  and  "  trust  him  once  again." 

(This  thing  because  there  was  perhaps  at  home, 

An  older  sister  where  he  loved  to  come.) 

But  there  are  other  things  the  picture  knew, 

We  must  recall,  would  all  declare  it  true ;  — 

The  long,  long  hours  of  vacancy  and  pain, 

The  thought  so  tired,  that  never  dared  complain ; 

The  back  that  ached,  in  painful  posture  kept, 

The  feet  benumb'd  from  cold,  or  blood  that  slept ; 

The  eye  that  would  look  out  on  grove  and  field, 

And  faint  to  taste  the  luxury  they  yield ;  — 

And  then  the  thought  that  we  were  forced  to  stay, 

Shut  like  caged  birds,  when  real  birds  could  play  — 

O,  with  what  crowds  of  hated  thoughts  doth  come 

The  school-house,  and  that  well-known,  one,  square  room  ! 

Yet  there  were  hours  of  fun  too,  after  all ; 

Where  was  the  boy,  the  cricket,  and  the  ball  ? 

Where  all  the  tricks  the  gamesome  school-boy  knows, 

Play'd  on  himself,  or,  by  him,  on  his  foes? 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE.  205 

Where  the  dear  play-spells,  when,  with  whoop  and  shout, 
Out  from  the  door  we  rush'd,  a  noisy  rout ; 
Made  the  snow-fort,  or  tumbled  in  the  snow, 
Play'd  tag,  and  wound  it  up,  or  let  it  go? 
Where  too  the  pride  that  thrill'd  us  when  we  chanc'd 
To  head  the  class  or  otherwise  advanc'd, 
And  master  came  and  stroked  us  on  the  head, 
Call'd  us  good  boy,  or  other  folly  said  ? 
Where  too  the  hours  of,  shall  we  say,  Love's  smart, 
Shared  by  some  sunny  eye  or  sunnier  heart ; 
<•  (Where  are  they  now  ?  alas,  the  grave  has  fed 
Its  foulest  worm  on  many  a  heart  and  head  !) 
And  then  the  little  rivalships  we  knew, 
If  but  some  bigger  boy  in  favor  grew  ? 
—  Folly,  all  this  !  some  sage  and  Burleigh  head, 
Shaking,  exclaims,  along  our  subject  led ; 
What  has  the  man  to  do  with  all  these  things, 
Vainer  than  vanity  without  its  wings  ? 
Will  they  instruct  him  how  to  fill  the  place 
A  man  should  fill,  and  better  run  his  race ; 
Teach  him  to  make  a  penny,  fix  a  law, 
Dose  a  poor  patient,  fill  a  hungry  maw  ? 
Perhaps  they  will,  and  far  before  your  rules, 
Learn'd  in  the  wiser  (so  call'd)  manly  schools; 


206  CHILDHOOD. 

For  they  may,  while  they  let  alone  the  head, 
Teach  us  to  better  pray,  "give  us  our  daily  bread." 
How  ?     By  once  more  recalling  the  sweet  days, 
When,  though  depraved,  man's  ways  are  not  man's  waysj- 
VVhen  feeling  is  all  fresh,  and  heart  alive 
To  the  good  impulses  all  objects  give  ; 
And  which  obey'd,  and  this  we  ought  to  see, 
May  keep  the  heart  to  youthful  piety. 

Why  doth  the  heart  turn  off  to  scenes  like  these, 
When  life  and  duty  offer  more  to  please  ? 
Why  turns  the  merchant  wearied  from  his  desk, 
The  man  of  fortune  from  his  trade  or  risk ; 
The  slave  of  faction,  or  the  man  in  trust; 
Pride  in  its  seat,  and  Poverty  in  dust; 
The  masted  sailor  to  his  task  compell'd, 
The  letter'd  traveler  in  land  of  Eld ; 
The  maiden  bless'd,  the  wife  in  her  sweet  state, 
Faith  at  the  altar,  Hope  e'en  at  Heaven's  gate,  — 
And  though  each  has  its  object,  and  the  heart 
Is  in  the  life  and  dreams  not  to  depart, 
Look  they  back  o'er  the  waste  of  years,  well  pleas'd 
With  what  has  Memory  of  past  objects  seized, 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE.  207 

And  given  to  Fancy  —  in  her  secret  power 

Shaping  sweet  pictures  for  the  lonely  hour? 

The  man  of  grief,  whom  Heaven  in  vengeance,  or 

Mercy  conceal'd,  has  given  to  life's  worst  war, — 

Stripp'd  him  perhaps  of  joys,  so  long  his  own 

That  in  their  loss  life's  self  seems  nearly  gone,  — 

He,  when  all  else  is  dark,  may  hurry  back, 

And  drink  the  light  and  bliss  of  boyhood's  track. 

The  bow'd  in  years  too,  when  have  objects  fled, 

As  life  its  sure,  but  natural,  course  has  led, — 

When  of  the  crowds  that  with  him  started  forth, 

Each  for  the  prize  man  never  wins  on  earth, 

But  here  and  there  a  lonely  one  like  him, 

Gropes  down  the  dark  with  trembling  heart  and  limb,  — 

How,  like  the  Summer  lightning  to  the  sky, 

Recur  to  him,  and  flit  before  his  eye, 

The  early  places,  and  the  thoughts,  and  all 

That  made  them  light,  or  sweet,  or  musical ! 

The  veteran  helmsman,  as  his  vessel  sleeps, 

Hush'd  as  its  shadow  on  the  trembling  deeps, 

When  Thought  may  on  a  pleasant  mission  go, 

Back  from  his  wither'd  years  and  care-lined  brow, — 

How  will  he  dream  and  dream,  then  start,  as  't  were 

A  real  dream,  so  strangely  pictur'd  there  ! 


208  CHILDHOOD. 

And  e'en  the  wretch,  we  might  deem,  shut  away 

From  the  free  air  or  charm  of  open  day ; 

To  delve  in  mines,  or,  chain'd,  to  dig  the  earth, 

Paying  in  such  coin  for  his  want  of  worth  ; 

Sudden  shall  see  the  glorious  vision  pass, 

Cheating  from  what  he  is  to  what  he  was. 

And  so  the  poet  with  a  heart  on  fire, 

His  fingers  trembling  o'er  the  quiv'ring  lyre, 

Turns  back  delighted  to  the  days  of  youth, 

And  feels  his  soul  burn  with  their  holy  truth. 

There  is  no  clime,  there  is  no  class,  no  hue, 

No  sex,  no  period,  fancy  brings  to  view ; 

Go  to  the  north  amid  its  snows,  or  go 

Where  the  fierce  torrid  heats  perpetual,  blow ; 

Go  with  the  inland  savage  where  he  be, 

Go  where  the  farthest  islands  dot  the  sea; 

And  if  a  heart  beat,  or  a  fancy  play, 

Each  has  the  fairy  world  of  life's  young  day. 

Now  why  is  this  —  that  man,  not  of  one  race, 

But  the  great  fact  earth's  millions  will  embrace, 

Turns  to  one  point,  and  in  its  bliss  is  lost, 
i 

Ay,  if  you  please,  when  manhood  offers  most  ? 
Is  't  wisely  said,  "  for  happiness  they  turn, 
Hope  in  her  grave,  and  Fancy  by  her  urn  "  ? 


EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS.  209 

But  they  will  turn  when  greater  good  is  given, 
By  favoring  Fortune  in  the  plans  of  Heaven  ! 
What  then  His  aim,  who  in  all  human  things, 
Moves  with  large  love,  which  touches  all  the  springs  f 
O,  't  is  to  keep  that  fount  within  the  breast, 
When  the  cold  winds  its  waters  have  repress'd, 
Still  pouring  forth,  from  its  deep  cell  secure, 
Life's  golden  charities,  for  ever  pure  ! 


EARLY     FRIENDSHIPS. 

NEXT  turn  we  where  another  hut  appears, 
Much  like  the  last,  well  seam'd  with  scars  and  years  ; 
What  is  there  round  that  hut  and  chimney  gray, 
That  bids  the  memory  wake,  the  fancy  play  ? 
This  for  the  general  heart  may  little  boast, 
To  waken  feeling  by  loved  objects  lost ; 
Though  for  the  poet,  scarce  an  object  seen 
In  all  the  past,  so  dear,  so  loved  has  been ; 
For  one,  whose  heart,  with  all  a  young  heart's  force, 
Was  knit  to  his,  there  started  in  his  course, 
And  round  that  spot  a  thousand  feelings  rise, 
Gentle  or  sad,  of  boyish  memories.     . 
14 


210  CHILDHOOD. 

The  thousand  morns  which  we  together  spent, 

The  thousand  ways  which  we  together  went  — 

No  adverse  feeling  ever  rising  up, 

To  dash  the  bliss  or  even  shake  the  cup ; 

The  play-spells  on  the  little  grass-plot  there, 

South  of  the  house  in  Summer  mornings  fair  ; 

The  rambles  in  the  orchard  on  the  north, 

When  the  soft  skies  of  May  bid  blossoms  forth, 

And  stream'd  the  rich,  red  sun  down  through  the  boughs, 

Or  stirr'd  the  breeze,  and  shook  down  showers  of  blows  ; 

The  hours  pass'd  there  when  Autumn  too  in  pride, 

Hung  his  ripe  fruits  up  on  the  garden  side, 

Watching  that  one  late  robin  on  her  nest, 

Last  of  the  flock,  the  orchard's  only  guest ; 

The  little  gardens  too,  our  hands  would  grace, 

Where  wit  or  fancy  had  assign'd  a  place ; 

The  melon  bed,  the  peaches  in  a  row, 

The  tassell'd  corn,  the  fragrant  pea  in  blow ; 

And  then  how  oft,  when  from  the  wintry  skies 

Whistled  the  winds  and  bade  the  snows  arise, — 

Or  when  all  night  in  silence  dropping  slow, 

Morn  gave  the  world  to  us  a  sheet  of  snow, — 

Daring  the  winds,  or  flying  snows,  we  play'd, 

Or  down  the  smooth  slope  bounded  on  the  sled. 


EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS. 

O,  how  these  scenes  —  on  memory's  tablet  writ  — 
Now  live  and  glow,  or  o'er  its  surface  flit ! 
How  the  full  heart,  that  feels  the  gathering  power, 
Swells  e'en  to  pain  beneath  the  charmed  hour ; 
And  while  its  pride  to  hide  the  feeling  tries, 
Becomes  a  silly  tell-tale  at  the  eyes  ! 

Is  it  not  true,  our  early  friendships  boast 
A  power  and  sweetness  later  ones  have  lost; 
Or  is  't  a  dream  that  poets  harp  upon, 
The  falsehood  plainer  when  their  work  is  done  ? 
Why  then  flies  back  so  readily  the  heart, 
To  the  sweet  ties  of  which  it  was  a  part ; 
Loves,  like  a  miser,  counting  o'er  his  gold, 
To  think  of  them  and  hear  their  numbers  told, 
Till  we  do  almost  spurn  what  manhood  gives, 
And  think  the  boy's  alone  the  faith  that  lives  ? 
O,  there  's  a  bliss  in  fact  in  life's  first  ties, 
The  sterner  heart  may  sigh  for  till  it  dies, — 
Something  that  colors  life  with  a  strange  hue 
Never  given  forth,  save  to  the  boyish  view,  — 
Something  that  shuts  life's  cares  and  curse  away, 
And  lets  the  young  heart  think,  at  least,  all  's  day ! 


212  CHILDHOOD. 

What  young  heart  falters  when  its  faith  is  given  ? 

Thinks  he  lies  not,  denying  there  's  a  Heaven  — 

Yes,  on  the  earth  —  in  the  sweet,  freshest  feeling 

Rushing  forth,  clinging  round  each  object,  stealing 

Through  every  scene,  into  each  channel,  where 

Bliss,  or  its  thought,  or  hope  is — or  all  are? 

We  give  in  these  years,  ,and  we  do  not  care 

That  wisdom  should  be-in  the  what  we  are  — 

Or  what  we  do  —  the  full  soul  readily, 

And  think  all  's  gold  that  flashes  on  the  eye. 

Years  prove  't  is  not;  still  where  's  the  good,  though  shown 

To  the  young  eye,  such  bliss  is  as  the  sun, — 

Ay,  his  last  ray  just  playing  on  the  sea, 

An  instant  there,  then  gone  as  suddenly? 

Give  us  the  bliss  then  of  this  early  tie,! 

Oive  us  for  ever  its  sweet  memory  ! 

<iive  us  the  verse  that  calls  it  to  the  thought, 

We  '11  deem  its  bliss  ours,  even  if  't  is  not ! 

And  for  a  while  we  '11  get  the  rough  brow  smooth'd, 

Yes,  and  the  earth-worn,  troubled  spirit  sooth'd ; 

We  '11  fright  the  gray  hairs  gathering  on  the  brow, 

With  something  of  the  boy's  blood  swept  below  ; 

And  make  the  lazy  heart  beat  once  again, 

To  the  wild  dance  of  youth  —  nor  beat  in  vain  ! 


EARLY    FRIENDSHIPS.  2 13 

'T  is  sometimes  said,  "  maturer  hearts  must  know 

Higher  and  higher  bliss  —  thus  while  they  go." 

But  it  's  not  true,  maturer  hearts  must  give 

Higher  and  higher  bliss — thus  while  they  live. 

Mind  may  accumulate  mind's  energy, 

Thought  may  more  wisely  launch  into  the  sky ; 

Knowledge  be  piled  upon  the  tortured  brain, 

Till  it  shall  curse  the  load,  yet  curse  in  vain ; 

Wisdom  may  come,  and  so  inform  the  soul, 

And  give  a  mighty  mastery  to  the  whole  ; 

And  strength  may  be  to  sway  vast  kindred  minds, 

And  toss  them  as  the  waves  are  toss'd  by  winds ;  — 

Yet  it  's  not  true  —  the  delicate,  kindling  heart 

Catches,  as  on  we  go,  in  every  part, 

From  earth,  and  sky,  and  cloud,  and  mind,  and  soul, 

Blisses  more  exquisite  as  seasons  roll ! 

The  lively  heart,  just  starting  into  life, 

Has  ne'er  been  chafed  amid  the  fiery  strife ; 

Its  power  to  feel  then  is  an  exquisite 

And  delicate  harp,  that  almost  feels  the  light, — 

Vibrates  to  finest  pulses  beating  ever 

Through  the  great  heart  of  Nature  —  from  the  Giver  ! 

This  clothes  the  mountain  with  its  glorious  light, 

This  the  broad  landscape  like  an  Eden  bright ; 


214  CHILDHOOD. 

This  to  the  wave  a  light  gives,  never  there, 

Gives  an  unearthly  music  to  the  air ; 

To  every  thing  that  beauty  has  or  voice, 

A  strange  wild  gift  to  make  the  heart  rejoice  ! 

This  the  heart  loses  as  we  journey  on, 

As  the  dawn  loses  beauty  hi  the  sun ; 

And,  till  the  heart  pause  at  life's  farthest  goal, 

This  power  is  chafed  off  from  the  feeling  soul. 


A    WALK    IN    THE    FOREST. 

T0RN'from  the  lake,  climb  up  these  hills,  survey 
The  forest  depths,  plunge  in,  and  force  a  way  j 
With  head  and  breast  prone  bent,  the  birch  displace, 
Or  pliant  alder  whisking  in  your  face ; 
Leap  now  a  brooklet  chattering  here  unseen 
Down  to  the  lake-shore,  where  it  plunges  in  ; 
Till,  where  all  undergrowths  seem  swept  away, 
We  stand  within  the  forest,  tall  and  gray. 
He  is  no  bard  who  feels  no  living  hymn 
Starting  fresh  to  his  lips  'mid  forests  dim,  — 
Bold,  crossing  shafts  that  shoot  in  middle  air, 
With  all  their  wealth  of  leaves  upheaving  there, 


A    WALK    IN    THE    FOREST.  215 

Rocking  to  one  reverberate  song  of  thunder, 

Or  playing  low  as  breathe  low  breezes  under ; 

And  all  sustain'd  by  giant  trunks  that  hold 

With  grasp  eternal  in  the  rocky  mould ! 

He  has  no  heart,  who  cannot  with  the  bard, 

Walk  these  dim  depths,  and  feel  he  has  reward, — 

With  solemn  thoughts,  by  mighty  themes  impress'd, 

With  solemn  feelings  laboring  in  his  breast; 

And  lifted  to  a  loftier  height  of  soul, 

Feel  his  great  heart  is  kindred  to  the  whole! 

There  is  indeed,  earth's  solemner  shades  among, 

Other  than  dreams,  and  holier  than  a  song) 

The  rhyming  ape  may  sing  its  semblance  sweet, 

The  genuine  heart  alone  has  felt  its  beat,  — 

A  quick'ning  power  from  all  things  coming  here, 

Pressing  at  eye  and  lip  and  sense  and  ear ; 

And  bearing  the  low  soul  from  earth  away, 

To  what  is  pure  and  brighter  than  the  day. 

The  solemn  shade  a  kindred  thought  reveals, 

The  massive  rock,  the  stream  that  'neath  it  steals ; 

The  solitude  and  vastness  which  impress 

Almost  with  sense  of  deepest  weariness, 

The  small  moss  clinging  to  the  damp,  low  stone, 

The  simple  flower  that  blossoms  there  alone, 


216  CHILDHOOD. 

The  chirp  of  birds,  the  squirrel  at  his  play, 
The  upland  bee  from  its  fresh  fields  away,  — 
All  by  a  power  the  gentle  heart  has  known, 
Come  with  impressions  that  are  all  their  own. 
It  may  be  —  He  who  built  this  cope  of  sky, 
And  spread  the  world  with  robe  of  kindred  dye, 
Built  the  shores  here  and  beat  them  into  rock, 
To  brave  the  ocean's  and  the  thunder's  shock, 
Here  sent  the  hills  up  till  they  met  the  sun, 
And  round  their  bases  bade  the  forests  run, 
Or,  more  adventurous,  part  way  up  their  sides, 
To  where  the  barrenest  lichen  scarce  abides; 
And  here  to  show  himself  a  God  indeed, 

Starts  a  small  flower,  or  there  an  herb  at  need,  — 
'  -~»  ' 

It  may  be,  't  is  in  all  we  hear  and  see, 
A  God  himself,  and  present  wonderfully ; 
Himself  that  sucks  the  virtues  from  the  ground, 
Runs  up  the  flower,  or  mighty  oak  profound ; 
Runs  here  in  waves  along  the  waving  plain, 
There  loads  the  meadow,  or  the  harvest  grain  ; 
Lives  in  the  bird,  sings  in  the  wind,  the  bee 
In  motion  is  the  hidden  Deity  ;  — 
It  may  be,  God,  thus  present  here,  becomes 
The  awful  power  of  Nature's  lights  or  glooms; 


A    WALK    IN    THE    FOREST.  217 

Gives  in  these  depths  th'  oppressive  power  we  feel, 
From  the  dim  vastriess  o'er  and  round  us  steal ; 
•Though  these  forms  thus,  his  agents,  showing  forth, 
As  in  his  Word,  the  Love  pervading  earth ! 

But  these  dim  arches,  as  we  walk  beneath, 
Another  influence,  a  more  earthly,  breathe ; 
For  Memory  comes,  with  all  her  earnest  power, 
To  shape  sweet  pictures  for  the  present  hour ; 
And  over  and  above  the  sense  of  grace, 
Sent  to  the  eye  from  all  that  crowds  the  place, 
The  soul  comes  under  what  has  been  before, 
And  lives  again  the  hours  of  boyhood  o'er. 
Yes,  there  is  beauty  as  we  walk  along 
The  stretching  ridges,  rocks  and  trees  among  ; 
Plunge  down  the  ravines  where  the  waters  go, 
Or  climb  a  height  that  towering  looks  below  ; 
Pass  now  through  thickets  where  the  alders  weep 
With  damps  perpetual  which  the  deep  shades  keep; 
Or  here  again,  as,  burst  forth  to  the  day, 
Where  has  the  whirlwind  been,  we  take  our  way ; 
Or  here,  slow  passing  down  a  narrow  glen, 
Arch'd  with  thick  pines  through  which  the  winds  complain, 


218  CHILDHOOD. 

( 

We  pass  beneath  vast  trunks  and  trees  more  tall, 

And  gain  another  mighty  forest  hall ! 

Boyhood  at  its  first  stage  ne'er  enter'd  here, 

Yet  is  the  spot  to  later  years  most  dear. 

When  had  life's  merely  sensuous  hours  gone  by, 

And  higher  thought  began  the  soul  supply  — 

Feed  it  with  blisses  youth  doth  crave,  when  move 

The  first  desires  of  sympathy  and  love ; 

Into  this  spot  the  dreamer  often  came, 

With  heart  of  fire,  and  thought  of  equal  flame  ; 

And  here  wild  dreams  of  love  and  chivalry 

Crowded  the  brain,  and  seem'd  to  fill  the  eye. 

Passion  here  dared  to  print  her  love-born  kiss, 

Flash'd  on  the  soul  here  first  her  bowers  of  bliss ; 

And  all  the  glory  living  in  Romance, 

Peopled  the  place  with  helm,  and  shield,  and  lance 

And  joust,  and  tournament,  and  ladie  bright, 

Lit  up  the  whole  most  royally  with  light ; 

And  Fancy  oped  her  stores,  till  then  unknown  — 

Imagination's  world  became  our  own  ! 

O,  what  a  land  of  glory  opens  bright, 

The  youthful  heart  first  gazing  in  its  light ! 

Is  there  a  world  whose  beauty  hath  outshone 

The  soften'd  glory  of  this  golden  one ; 


VIEW    FROM    THE    TOP    OF    THE    ROCKS.  219 

Its  skies  of  light,  its  rich  and  glad  domains, 
And  the  perpetual  Spring  of  bliss  that  reigns ; 
Its  loveliness,  all  dazzling  like  our  youth, 
And  like  one  long,  rich  dream  of  Heaven's  truth  : 
O,  that  a  dream  so  bright  should  ever  pass, 
And  leave  us  but  the  memory  that  it  was ! 


VIEW   FROM    THE    TOP    OF    THE    ROCKS. 

PASS  from  the  forest  —  here  we  stand  upon 
Rocks  piled  on  rocks,  and  hills  promiscuous  thrown 
A  sheer,  bare  cliff,  that  downward  looks  so  far, 
All  objects  seem  but  half  the  size  they  are ; 
Dark  pines  and  cedars  bristling  its  notch'd  edge, 
And,  nearer  view'd,  dead  grass  like  ocean's  sedge ; 
Its  broad  front  seam'd  with  many  a  rent  and  scar, 
And  black  from  time  or  elemental  war. 
The  village  here  spreads  out  before  our  eyes, 
And  the  round,  scoop'd-out  vale  in  which  it  lies, — 
The  village'  self,  of  spires  and  mansions  neat, 
Winding  around  the  mountain  at  your  feet ; 
The  broad,  scoop'd  vale  afar  that  rises  up, 
Like  to  a  lotus  leaf  of  broken  cup,  — 


220  CHILDHOOD. 

(For  southward  break  the  lordly  hills  away, 
To  let  the  stream  outr  and  let  in  the  day,  — ) 
Clear'd  to  its  circling  rim  of  stone  and  wood, 
Where  late  was  massive  rock  and  solitude. 
Start  to  the  eye  too,  waters  flashing  bright, 
And  rolling  on  in  loveliness  and  light, — 
Waters  that  come  from  off  the  northern  hills, 
Till  their  whole  wealth  one  noble  channel  fills, 
Which,  winding  here  and  there  along  the  scene, 
Sweetly  relieves  the  wilderness  of  green. 
Here  turning  short,  it,  like  a  serpent's  course, 
Hurries  in  foam  and  with  a  double  force ; 
Again  it  spreads  forth  in  a  clear,  white  bay, 
Where  might  a  skiff  amid  its  eddies  play  ; 
Again  the  stream  is  lost  to  sight  of  eye, 
Again  it  flashes  to  the  open  sky ; 
And  now,  half  hidden  parted  groves  between, 
It  seems  asleep  beneath  its  painted  screen;  — 
Now  it  flows  on,  to  where,  from  out  the  west, 
Another  stream  comes  bounding  to  its  breast ; 
Then  with  a  wider  current  bearing  on, 
To  where  the  parted  hills  are  backward  thrown, 
It  plunges  through  obstructing  rocks,  its  roar 
Shaking  the  vale,  and  then  is  heard  no  more. 


VIEW   FROM   THE    TOP   OF   THE    ROCKS.  iWl 

Northward  the  hills  are  piled  on  hills  away, 

Till  their  blue  tops  are  mingled  with  the  day  ! 

Brothers  the  hills  seem,  —  as  some  star  in  force, 

Meeting  another  in  its  airy  course, 

Crush'd  by  the  stroke  has  thunder'd  down  the  sky, 

Where,  like  a  shatter'd  world,  its  ruins  lie  ! 

On  these  proud  heights,  how  sweet  to  send  the  eye 

Round  this  whole  cope  of  variegated  sky, 

j 
Down  on  these  ample  vales,  and  round  these  hills, 

Till  the  dilated  heart  the  prospect  fills ; 

And  lifted  by  the  sentiment  sublime, 

Pour  the  full  soul  out  in  its  kindred  rhyme! 

When  Summer's  suns  had  crowded  earth  and  sky 

With  all  the  light  that  on  them  both  may  lie, 

And  scarce  a  breath  the  sultry  heaven  gave  cool, 

And  plash'd  the  panting  cattle  in  the  pool, 

And  insect  wings  were  trying  in  the  shade, 

Their  merry  dance  from  the  hot  sun  afraid, — 

How  have  we  climbed  these  heights,  and,  stretclfd  at  length, 

Till  the  cool,  circling  wind  had  given  us  strength, 

Bless'd  the  kind  Power  that  gave  the  solemn  shade, 

The  favoring'  height,  and  cooling  mountain  head  ! 

And  how,  when  winds  of  Winter  have  been  here, 

Ribbing  the  hills  with  ice  or  snows  severe, 


222  CHILDHOOD. 

Rocking  afar  the  barren  wood,  still  dim, 

Till  its  vast  depths  gave  out  a  thunder-hymn ; 

How  have  we  plunged  the  snows  and  depths  among, 

Braced  every  nerve,  by  fancy  led  along ; 

Spending  delightedly  whole  days,  and  fired 

With  the  strange  luxury  the  scene  inspired ! 

And  often  too,  when  had  the  sleet  come-down, 

Over  the  earth  and  on  the  mountain's  crown, 

Giving  the  whole  wide  scene  a  sheet  of  light, 

Woven  of  sunbeams  seemingly  so  bright ; 

How  have  we  come  the  forest  halls  along, 

Gazing  and  wond'ring  at  the  glory  flung 

Down  from  the  heavens  upon  the  earth,  and  seem'd 

To  realize  the  glory  prophets  dream'd  ! 


A   CONNECTICUT    VILLAGE    CHARACTER. 

DOWN  from  the  cliff  now  pass  we,  where  a  cleft 
Opes  to  the  north,  of  verdure  all  bereft ; 
Pass  we  a  wood  path,  now  a  singing  rill, 
j\ow  rise  again  a  gently  rounded  hill ; 
And  now  descend  to  cross  the  public  street 
Where  stands  a  church,  and  four  broad  commons  meet. 


A  CONNECTICUT  VILLAGE  CHARACTER.     223 

May  we  not  turn  aside  a  moment  here, 

Nor  earn  the  critic's  scorn  or  lash  severe, 

And  paint  a  single  object  that  we  see 

In  dim  perspective,  known  to  Memory? 

Humble  it  is,  but  such  are  all  the  things 

Hov'ring  around  us  on  their  golden  wings ; 

And  waiting  to  appear  as  Memory  gives 

Them  form  and  shape  and  Fancy  each  receives, 

Then  clothes  with  words,  the  which  the  poet  writes, 

Not  as  he  thinks,  but  as  herself  indites;  — 

Yet  there  's  no  heart  with  village  life  acquaint, 

But  shall  acknowledge  't  is  to  life  we  paint. 

Beside  a  stream  that  southward  runs,  you  see 

A  small  white  house  —  not  one  of  poverty  — 

For  neat  and  clean  the  house  itself,  and  round 

The  same  is  nothing  else  but  neatness  found. 

A  single  chimney  tops  it,  and  one  door 

Enters  the  same  —  it  has  no  need  of  more. 

A  single  window  on  each  side  is  seen, 

And  up  to  each  and  round  them,  creepers  green 

Are  woven  very  prettily,  —  and  see, 

Une  is  in  blow,  the  blow  stirs,  for  a  bee 

Is  buzzing  in  it  very  busily. 

A  little  grass-plot  fronts  the  house,  behind 

A  garden  is,  and  with  a  fruit-yard  join'd ; 


224  CHILDHOOD. 

And  'twixt  the  two,  and  bounded  by  a.  fence, 

A  well  is  —  Summer  school-boys  drink  from  thence. 

Within  that  place  a  single  woman  keeps 

House  by  herself — there  cooks,  and  eats,  and  sleeps; 

Known  to  the  place  throughout,  and  high  and  low 

Look  on  and  love  her — it  was  always  so, — 

At  least  e'er  since,  a  little  urchin,  I 

That  same  well-known,  and  well-loved  form  could  spy. 

She  is  a  maiden,  we  '11  not  say  old  maid, 

It  harshly  sounds,  and  readers  may  upbraid ; 

And  yet,  I  know  not  why  the  term  should  be 

Despised,  for  she  has  given  it  that  degree 

Of  excellence  and  holy  purity, 

It  should  an  honor  be  to  her  that  bears, 

And  daily  honors  it  with  daily  cares. 

Are  any  sick  ?  you  find  this  maiden  come 

First  on  the  list  —  she  calls  each  house  a  home, 

And  for  each  member  of  the  family 

She  has  a  look,  a  kind  word,  feeling  eye. 

She  's  not  sent  for  — for  that  she  'd  never  wait  — 

If  but  the  sick  are  sick  she  's  at  the  gate  ; 

And  night  and  day,  bless'd  angel,  thou  couldst  bear 

What  could  no  other  —  be  thou  ever  there  ! 

Are  any  poor?  she  finds  them,  —  any  dead.' 

Hers  are  the  fingers  that  have  placed  the  head  ; 


A    CONNECTICUT    VILLAGE    CHARACTER.  225 

And  shroud  and  cap  her  fingers  find  —  and  all, 

Save  the  red  coffin  and  the  woollen  pall. 

Is  the  church  dusty,  she  can  sweep  it,  —  would 

You  have  a  cushion,  well-stufTd,  soft,  and  good  ': 

Give  her  the  size,  you  '11  find,  next  "  Sabba'  day," 

It  's  in  its  place  exact,  complete  alway. 

Is  there  a  widow  with  a  child,  and  who 

Can't  pay  the  school-tax,  and  there  are  a  few, 

Here  is  a  friend  to  take  the  child  next  fall, 

And,  for  the  pleasure  of  't,  will  teach  it  all. 

And  is  there  some  aristocrat,  poor  fool, 

Whose  notions  are  above  the  common  school ; 

Or  one,  a  wise  man,  who  example  fears 

So  much,  he  will  not  trust  it  to  his  "  dears  "  ; 

Here  is  a  teacher  worth  a  thousand,  she 

Will  take  them,  if  you  ask  it,  readily. 

She  's  other  virtues,  but,  kind  reader,  did 

You  ever  see  th'  original  ?    So  I  said  ; 

And  so  I  say  again,  if  thou  art  one 

Born  in  New  England,  and  her  worthy  son. 


226  CHILDHOOD. 


A     PURITAN     POET'S     APOSTROPHE     TO     THE     EPISCOPAL 
CHURCH,    WITH    A    PANEGYRIC    ON    HIS    OWN. 

PASS  down  the  street,  to  where  we  come  upon 
That  noble  church,  that  's  stood  the  storm  and  sun 
Of  busy  centuries,  which,  crowding  by, 
To  Faith  and  Hope  their  different  forms  supply  ; 
And  which  shall  stand,  until,  "  with  awful  roar, 
Dissolving  worlds  declare  that  time  is  o'er !  " 
Albeit  the  man  may  different  faith  prefer, 
The  poet  stands  confess'd,  her  worshiper. 
Round  her  old  towers,  grown  grim  with  damps  and  rime, 
How  Fancy  liveth  with  the  olden  time,  — 
Dreams  the  rude  dreams  the  different  shocks  of  earth 
People  her  realms  with  in  their  grief  or  mirth, 
And  lives  again  the  scenes  o'er,  when,  alway, 
Man  seems  a  God,  although  a  God  in  clay  ! 
How,  as  we  stand  beside  her  towers  that  rise, 
Back  sweep  the  shades  of  buried  centuries, — . 
With  all  their  follies,  and  with  all  their  pride, 
With  all  that  's  mean  to  all  that  's  great  allied ; 
Man  in  his  native  rudeness,  yet,  confess'd, 
With  the  great  image  of  his  Sire  impress'd  ! 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    EPISCOPAL    CHURCH.        227 

How,  with  the  sacred,'  almost  awful  dust 
Staining  her  ample  robe,  she  comes  in  trust, — 
Bearing,  oft  mix'd  perhaps  with  baser  ore, 
Yet  the  pure,  precious  seed  the  Saviour  bore  ; 
And  which,  broad-scatter'd  from  his  awful  hand, 
She  yet  preserves  to  every  sea  and  land  ! 
Round  her  old  towers  we  seem  to  catch  the  spell 
She  bound  the  world  with  when  her  bond  was  well,  — 
The  ruder  ages,  when,  though  great,  a  child 
Man  was,  if  left  to  his  own  passions  wild ; 
And  when  the  solemn  mysteries  she  bore, 
Bade  him  bow  down,  and  for  his  good  adore  ! 
The  solemn  awe  that  always  comes  with  time, 
Here  fills  the  soul,  and  swells  its  sense  sublime;  — 
The  round  old  towers,  the  Gothic  porch,  the  stone 
Shafting  her  sides  or  windows  moss  o'ergrown ; 
The  long,  dim  arches  gathering  peals  of  thunder, 
From  the  low  organ  breathed,  or  loud,  that  's  under; 
And  all  that  Fancy  loves  to  dream  of  there, 
And  clothe  with  all  she  wishes,  dazzling  fair, — 
How  do  we  come  beneath  their  power  once  more, 
And  live  again  the  days  of  romance  o'er ! 
A  simple  church  is  this  —  yet  the  great  whole, 
Of  which  she  is  a  part,  has  fill'd  the  soul ! 


228  CHILDHOOD. 

The  Church  !  great  name !  perverted  oft  indeed, 
Yet  still  most  great  and  mightiest  in  her  need, 
With  all  her  centuries  of  worth  seems  here, 
And  Fancy  bows,  her  lowliest  worshiper ! 
South,  where  her  arching  windows  meet  the  sun, 
One  hoary  poplar  leans  the  roof  upon ; 
A  single  rook  is  cawing  there  at  will, 
This  to  complete,  the  sense  sublime  to  fill  ! 

But  shall  we  leave  our  own  loved  Church  unsung, 
So  often  stigmatized  with  pen  and  tongue  ? 
Nay,  while  the  harp  has  music  in  it,  breathe 
The  sweetest  strain  can  hallow'd  thought  bequeath  ! 
Pass  like  the  light  all  shadows  from  the  mind, 
Here  to  no  sentiment  be  thought  consign'd ! 
Time  can  come  back  with  little  here,  to  make 
Our  churches  dear  to  us  and  for  her  sake; 
Though  must  we  deem  their  history  sublime, 
Shall  with  majestic  march  yet  fill  all  time. 
Pass  like  a  dream,  the  solemn  shade  or  show 
Of  the  dread  past,  with  all  it  can  bestow ; 
Pass  the  old  towers  and  storied  window  seen, 
Peeping  from  out  its  fold  of  ivy  green  ; 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    EPISCOPAL    CHURCH.         229 

Pass  all  the  heart  would  love  to  dream  of  there, 

With  all  that  Romance  gives  and  Fancy  fair,  — 

And  in  her  simple  wealth  of  faith  alone, 

Measure  the  value,  which  is  all  her  own  ! 

Born  'mid  the  shocks  that  rent  a  nation  twain, 

Cradled  'mid  fires  cementing  it  again ; 

Baptized  on  a  waste  sea,  the  ocean's  child, 

And  nurtur'd  in  a  wilderness  more  wild ; 

Behold  her  here  in  simple  beauty  rise, 

Her  feet  on  earth,  her  heart  within  the  skies ! 

Is  she  divine  ?     We  point  you  to  no  law, 

Seen  by  tradition,  which  the  Fathers  saw ; 

Is  she  divine  ?     We  point  you  to  her  breast, 

With  radiant  majesty  of  truth  impress'd ; 

Her  helm  of  glory,  and  her  footsteps  shod 

With  the  firm  preparation  of  her  God ; 

Her  arm  stretch'd  forth  to  grasp  the  silent  world  — 

How?  with  the  banner  of  her  peace  unfurl'd; 

Her  millions  pour'd  in  channels  through  each  clime, 

Where  live  the  imbruted  wrecks  of  sin  and  crime ; 

Her  sons  in  crowds  whose  bones  white  every  shore, 

Her  sons  in  crowds  still  following  those  before ; 

Her  Faith  that  stops  not  till  the  world  be  won, 

Bound  in  Love's  chains,  and  given  to  the  Son  ! 


230  CHILDHOOD. 

Is  she  not  glorious  as  she  stands  there  bright, 

Her  garments  glittering  like  a  flood  of  light  ? 

Is  she  not  inission'd  forth  in  strength  to  go, 

Conquering  and  conquering  till  the  world  shall  bow  ; 

Filling  each  clime  with  her  sweet  beauty  sent, 

Cheering  the  nations  in  their  banishment; 

Bidding  the  islands  of  the  sea  draw  near, 

And  shout  aloud  a  God  of  mercy  near; 

Till  he  sublime,  who  once  in  earth's  distress, 

Came  in  the  beauty  of  his  lowliness, 

Shall  come  again,  the  living  heavens  outshone 

By  the  strange  splendors  of  his  golden  throne  ; 

Launching  his  fires  along  the  open  day, 

Sweeping  in  wrath  his  enemies  away; 

And  o'er  the  subjects  that  have  own'd  him,  "  sealed,' 

Reigns,  the  bright  God,  in  majesty  revealed ! 


THE    PLACE    OF    GRAVES. 

THE  place  of  graves !  how  many  feelings  come, 
Shrouding  the  soul  here  with  a  pall  of  gloom,  — 
The  spot  to  which  all  hurry  like  the  tide 
Thund'ring  the  hills  down  to  the  ocean  wide ; 


THE    PLACE    OF    GRAVES.  231 

Where  lost  'mid  wastes  to  human  ken  ne'er  shown, 

They  pass  like  light,  or  bubbles  in  the  sun. 

He  is  not  man  who  walks  unfeeling  here, 

Or  smiling  marks  the  shadows  that  appear,  — 

Death  with  his  train  arising  into  view, 

These  cloth'd  in  light  and  those  of  deeper  hue, 

And  passing  o'er  the  busy  stage  of  thought, 

Question'd  of  what  they  are,  but  answering  not. 

The  past  appears,  the  far  past  of  our  race, 

Sweeping  along  with  loud  and  hurried  pace  ; 

And  the  dread  wrecks  of  all-corroding  time, 

In  insignificance  or  pomp  sublime  ! 

See  here  the  greatness  of  the  ancient  day, 

Lo,  the  gigantic  sons  of  earth  and  clay ; 

The  glittering  helm  that  shaded  the  red  eye, 

Fierce  as  a  star  when  drave  the  battle  by ; 

The  spear,  the  shield,  the  chariot,  and  the  roar 

Like  the  vexed  ocean  beating  on  his  shore ; 

The  shatter'd  helm  too,  and  the  broken  plume, 

And  the  bow'd  form  and  eye  of  conquer'd  gloom  ! 

And  lo,  the  softer  images  that  seem 

Crowding  the  eye  and  flitting  like  a  dream, — 

Love  and  its  sweet  bowers  coming  into  sight, 

Circled  with  roses,  raining  golden  light, 


232  CHILDHOOD. 

And  all  that  Youth  has  hoped  and  Fancy  brought, 
To  deck  its  fairy  world  with  fairy  thought! 
How  as  they  pass  here  the  bewilder'd  eye, 
The  soul  is  moved  by  what  they  do  supply,  — 
The  heart  just  breaking  in  its  budding  Spring, 
The  tear  that  rain'd  o'er  fresh  hopes  withering, 
The  biting  anguish  of  life's  parting  hour, 
And  the  tremendous  glooms  that  o'er  it  lower  ! 


>     CONCLUSION. 

BUT  lo,  the  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west, 
His  last  red  light  lies  on  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Red  shafts  of  fire  shoot  up  the  middle  sky, 
Red  are  the  piles  of  clouds  that  westward  lie ; 
Yet  down  he  drops  behind  the  dark'ning  hills, 
While  a  dusk  shadow  all  the  landscape  fills. 
E'er  hush'd  the  strain  is  in  the  deep'ning  gloom, 
We  turn  again  to  that  lov'd  place  call'd  home ; 
The  dearest  spot  the  world  can  ever  give, 
Where  the  heart  first  did  wake,  and  fain  would  live 
Whither  from  earth's  far  poles  flies  each  away, 
And  where  if  unblest,  curs'd  is  he  for  aye. 


CONCLUSION.  233 

Gaze  on  the  spot — it  rises  up  the  same, 

As  it  did  when  thought,  life,  and  soul  were  flame  ; 

Around  it  gathers  what  a  world  of  ties,  — 

Swells  full  the  breast  with  buried  memories! 

We  have  come  far  from  many  cares  and  tears, 

To  see  this  loved  place  of  our  ancient  years ; 

We  have  by  might  cast  off  the  load  awhile, 

We  would  here  stand  and  gaze,  ay,  gaze  and  smile ; 

If  life  hath  joy  connected  with  the  spot, 

It  should  be  ours,  and  life's  griefs  all  forgot; 

And  if  the  heart  be  cold  or  withering, 

We  would  refresh  it  at  this  golden  spring  ! 

We  see  the  boy  far  through  the  waste  of  years, 

We  mark  the  bright  brow  where  no  care  appears ; 

We  see  the  eye,  't  is  glowing  as  the  sun, 

We  see  the  heart  beat,  feel  its  pulses  run ; 

And  the  pure  thought,  by  fancy  there  made  so, 

How  we  sec  that,  and  almost  feel  its  glow ! 

O,  as  we  gaze,  'that  we  might  win,  if  lost, 

That  pure  heart  back  that  blesses  us  the  most, — 

The  undimm'd  eye  with  which  we  first  look'd  forth, 

Enjoying  all  earth  gives  us  in  her  mirth, 

Till  it  should  thaw  the  rugged  crust  away 

Life  forms  round  each  in  its  great  battle  fray  ! 


234  CHILDHOOD. 

And  we  would  here  once  more,  life's  path  upon 

Start  with  a  fresh  heart,  bless'd  by  its  first  sun; 

With  its  sweet  consciousness  of  virtue  too, 

We  would  be  cheer'd,  refresh'd  too  by  its  dew; 

And  with  the  stern  experience  now  our  own, 

Close  up  each  day  with  nobler  duties  done. 

If  might  this  sweet  result  the  present  gain, 

We  have  not  sung,  nor  have  we  dreamed  in  vain ; 

Turn'd  off  awhile  from  life's  hot,  thick'ning  press, 

To  breathe  the  air  of  youth  and  its  release ; 

Roam'd  round  these  scenes  to  memory  ever  dear, 

Not  with  a  silly  sentimental  tear, 

But  with  a  man's  truth-freighted,  loving  breast, 

That  dares  in  its  fresh  feelings  to  be  bless'd. 

In  later  years  we  often  learn  to  scorn 

The  golden  freshness  of  life's  vernal  morn ; 

We  learn  to  scorn  those  early  fountains  given, 

Pouring  a  bliss  forth,  seemingly  from  Heaven ; 

On  manlier  things  we  fix  the  eye  and  heart, 

Turn  from  our  youth,  and  bid  its  lights  depart ; 

Forgetting,  as  we  journey  from  the  sun, 

The  heart  grows  cold,  its  streams  more  sluggish  run. 

O,  wiser  he  who  cherishes,  far  more, 

The  sunny  sky  that  bent  his  boyhood  o'er  ; 


CONCLUSION.  235 

Bears  with  him  into  every  land  and  clime 

The  holy  beauty  of  that  early  time ;  — 

Keeps  a  heart  fresh  to  every  sound  thence  sent, 

And  thought  itself  a  mystic  instrument ; 

And  hears,  oft  ringing  through  his  deepest  soul, 

Life's  first  wild  melodies  around  him  roll ! 

If  might  this  truth  but  often  bring  us  back 

From  the  hot  press  of  life  to  boyhood's  track ; 

That  we  might  ever,  when  the  heart  is  cursed, 

Turn  to  those  early  founts  whence  life-streams .  burst, — 

Not  vainly  hath  the  poet  dared  to  sing, 

Nor  vainly  have  we  listened  to  his  string. 


236 


THE    HEART   AND    COT   OF    MY    OWN. 


I  HAVE  roam'd  through  the  world  for  the  sweet  and  the  holy. 

And  much  of  its  brightness  my  spirit  has  known, 
But  naught  have  I  found  could  so  win  me  from  folly, 

As  the  dear  little  heart  in  the  cot  of  my  own. 

The  earth  it  is  changing — the  kind  eyes  of  others, 
Wherever  we  meet  them,  are  subject  to  change ; 

And  fathers  and  mothers  and  sisters  and  brothers, 
And  every  thing  found  through  its  eloquent  range. 

Even  the  light  of  the  beautiful  Summer, 

Even  the  joy  of  the  exquisite  Spring  ; 
Even  the  Autumn,  when  thought  is  a  roamer, 

Has  in  its  witchery  something  to  sting. 


THE    HEART    AND    COT    OF    MY    OWN.  237 

All  the  wild,  bright,  fancy -pictures  e'er  gazed  on, 

All  in  which  love's  holy  passion  is  not; 
All  ever  conjured  up,  light  ever  blazed  on, 

Either  to  highest  or  lowliest  thought  — 

All  have  a  something  that  leaves  a  soft  sorrow 
Over  the  heart  where  their  blisses  are  known, 

But  there  is  nothing  that  sweetness  can  borrow, 
Found  in  the  dear  little  heart  of  our  own. 


238 


"  O,    GIVE    ME   THE    HILLS,"   &c. 


O,  GIVE  me  the  hills,  and  the  woods,  and  the  mountains, 
The  blue  sky  my  shelter,  the  heather  my  floor; 

The  sunny  lakes,  cascades,  and  moss-circled  fountains, 
O,  give  me  their  beauties,  I  ask  for  no  more ! 

Ye  may  tell  me  of  cities,  their  sweets,  and  their  blisses, 
The  song,  and  the  dance,  and  the  bright  sparkling  eye; 

The  bright  forms  of  beauty,  the  soft  melting  kisses, 
The  half-speaking  look,  and  the  soul-thrilling  sigh. 

Ye  may  tell  me  of  these,  but  I  '11  tell  ye  of  singing, 
Far  away  in  the  woodlands  sequester'd  and  lone,  — 

Of  the  blithe,  startling  music,  that,  swelling  and  ringing 
From  the  wild  bird,  shall  make  ye  confess  ye  have  none. 


"  O,   GIVE    ME   THE   HILLS,"   &C.  239 

I  can  tell  ye  of  beauty,  the  perfect  complexion, 
The  fair,  healthy  cheek,  slightly  shaded  with  dun, 

'T  would  betray  ye  to  think,  't  is  the  gentle  reflection 
Of  the  rose-leaf,  when  dyed  by  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

I  can  tell  ye  of  symmetry,  graceful,  bewitching, 
Of  dark  eyes,  of  kisses,  of  accents  that  thrill ; 

I  can  tell  ye  of  sighs,  that  are  speaking,  and  —  catching, 
For  they  dwell  in  the  cot  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 

Yes,  't  is  there  dwells  my  Mary,  surrounded  by  Nature, 
Rock,  hill,  wood,  and  valley,  and  murmuring  grove ; 

Its  clear  air  hath  heighten'd  the  charms  of  each  feature, 
'T  is  Nature  has  taught  her  the  lesson  of  love. 

And  the  love  of  her  innocent  heart  I  have  tested, 
She  is  gentle,  confiding,  and  modest,  and  free  ; 

For  her  love  the  dark  current  of  sorrow  I  've  breasted, 
And  her  heart,  dreams,  and  wishes,  now  centre  in  me. 

Then  give  me  the  hills,  and  the  woods,  and  the  mountains, 
The  blue  sky  my  shelter,  the  heather  my  floor; 

The  sunny  lakes,  cascades,  and  moss-circled  fountains, 
O,  give  me  their  beauties,  I  ask  for  no  more ! 


240 


NONSENSE. 


O,  GIRLS  fantastic  creatures  are, 

Vexing  us,  teasing  us ; 
Now  they  're  here,  now  they  're  there, 

Perplexing  us,  pleasing  us ; 
See  you  here  a  soft  blue  "  ee," 

O,  beware  !  O,  beware  ! 
For  it  melteth  but  to  be 

For  a  snare,  for  a  snare. 

I  have  loved  a  gentle  girl  — 
How  I  loved,  how  I  loved, 

Witness  it  my  heart's  wild  whirl, 
When  she  moved,  when  she  moved ; 


NONSENSE.  241 

Life,  soul,  feeling,  all  sincere, 

Bound  up  in  her,  bound  up  in  her ; 

She  has  left  me,  and  I  'm  here, 
A  "wound  up"  sinner,  a  "wound  up"  sinner. 

Left  me,  and  without  a  smile, 

Save  a  cold  one,  save  a  cold  one  ; 
Not  a  word  there  fell  the  while, 

Save  some  old  one,  save  some  old  one; 
My  heart  about  to  burst,  and  chain'd 

As  by  a  spell,  as  by  a  spell, 
She  could  falter,  unconstrain'd, 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well. 

O,  I  loved  her  (for  it  may 

I  be  forgiven,  be  forgiven  ! ) 
Rather  than  as  a  thing  of  clay, 

As  a  thing  of  Heaven,  a  thing  of  Heaven ; 
Feelings,  none  I  had  but  went 

Straightway  there,  straightway  there  ; 
When  I  prayed,  her  image  blent 

With  my  prayer,  with  my  prayer. 
16 


242  NONSENSE. 

When  she  went,  there  was  I, 

Like  her  shade,  like  her  shade  ; 
When  sh«  call'd,  I  was  by, 

And  there  I  staid,  and  there  I  staid  : 
If  her  soft  eye  sadden'd  seem'd, 

I  could  smile,  I  could  smile, 
Till  that  soft  eye  gladden'd  seem'd, 

As  erewhile,  as  erewhile. 

I  presented  her  a  ring, 

Which  she  took,  which  she  took ; 
And  her  words  fell  murmuring, 

Like  a  brook,  like  a  brook ; 
Soft  her  eye's  glance  fell  upon  me, 

Even  there,  even  there  ; 
When  its  gentle  meanings  won  me 

Like  a  prayer,  like  a  prayer. 

She  has  left  me,  and  I  'in  here, 

Desolate,  desolate ; 
She  has  left  me,  nor  a  tear 

For  my  fate»  for  my  fate : 


NONSENSE.  243 

O !  to  be  thus  coldly  parted, 

Nor  relief,  nor  relief, 
And  to  be  thus  broken-hearted, 

This  is  grief,  this  is  grief. 

Yet,  I  love  her,  I  confess  it, 

More  than  ever,  more  than  ever; 
Love  's  a  stream,  you  can't  repress  it, 

Mine  's  a  river !  mine  's  a  river ! 
Life,  soul,  feeling,  all  are  given, 

All  my  store,  all  my  store; 
In  her,  round  her,  there  's  my  Heaven, 

I  want  no  more,  I  want  no  more. 


244 


THE     WAVE. 


THE  wave,  the  wave,  how  beautiful 

It  flashes  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  how  the  light  shifts  quick  and  wild, 

Upon  it  leaping  in  its  fun ; 
You  may  look  round  the  sweep  of  earth, 

And  look  throughout  the  cope  of  sky, 
And  yet  methinks  than  this  sweet  wave 

No  fairer  thing  shall  greet  your  eye. 

'T  is  fair  in  the  far  distance  seen, 
The  light  breeze  skimming  o'er  it  sweet, 

When  o'er  it,  in  its  morning  flush, 
The  dancing,  shifting  sunbeams  meet ; 


THE    WAVE.  '245 

And  fair  it  is  when  on  the  strand 
It  comes  and  curls  and  flashes  white, 

And  then  rolls  back  upon  the  deep, 
Again  to  gather  up  its  might. 

And  fair  it  is. to  watch  that  wave 

When  day  is  done  and  stars  are  out, 
And  see  it  leap  up  at  the  moon, 

And  hear  its  little  tiny  shout ; 
And  beautiful  it  is  to  see 

The  moon  shed  there  its  holy  smile, 

And  that  wave  rocking  in  its  play, 

/ 
As  if  a  conscious  thing  the  while. 

And  beautiful  to  look  away 

When  softest  Summer  winds  are  sweeping, 
And  burns  the  hallow'd  eye  of  day, 

Or  midnight  o'er  the  wave  is  sleeping ; 
And  see  writ  out  in  lines  of  light 

Each  cloud  that  o'er  the  sky  is  borne, 
From  holiest  morn  till  holiest  night, 

From  holy  eve  till  holier  morn. 


246  THE   WAVE. 

But  this  same  wave  another  beauty 

Hath,  as  I  've  seen,  at  other  times, 
When  gone  is  heaven's  sweet,  placid  light, 

And  comes  the  power  of  sterner  climes ; 
The  tempest,  when  from  tropic  skies 

It  comes  and  broods  upon  the  sea, 
There  is  another  beauty  there, 

That  's  awful  in  sublimity. 

i 
It  is  a  beauty  full  of  strength, 

Of  sternness,  yet  of  grandeur  too  ; 
For  that  small  wave  augmented  then, 

Gathers  as  would  a  giant  do ; 
And  lifting  up  a  trumpet  voice, 

It  howls  till  earth  and  heaven  shake, 
Then,  rushing  from  its  bed,  it  comes 

As  't  would  its  very  barriers  break ; 

Or  meeting  with  some  gallant  bark 
That  long  in  pride  has  swept  the  sea, 

It  howls  a  requiem  for  the  dead, 
Then  sucks  them  down  in  agony ; 


THE   WAVE.  247 

Then  rolling  o'er  the  beautiful 

And  brave  that  it  has  swept  in  wrath, 

Unconscious  all,  it  seems,    hat  woe 
Has  follow'd  up  its  awful  path. 

And  sometimes  on  that  wave  goes  down 

The  fiery  storm,  the  lightning's  wing, 
Cuffing  its  proud  head  as  it  tears 

The  very  heavens  in  its  swing; 
He  who  has  then  gazed  on  that  wave, 

Has  felt  his  heart,  I  ween,  beat  high, 
And  he  has  shouted  with  the  storm, 

To  ease  that  heart  of  agony. 

Ah,  yes,  the  wave  in  storm  or  shine 

A  gentle,  awful  beauty  has; 
It  is  the  sweetest,  sternest  thing, 

That  'neath  the  whole  wide  heaven  plays ; 
In  shade  or  shine  or  storm  sublime, 

Or  when  the  Summer  breezes  call ; 
When  storms  sing  till  the  heavens  ring, 

It  hath  the  same  wild  gift  for  ail ! 


248 


NEW    ENGLAND. 


NEW  ENGLAND  !  all  our  bards  have  sung, 

And  loud,  in  praise  of  thee, 
And  all  their  kindling  rapture  flung 

Upon  their  music  free ; 
Thy  proud  old  forests  stretching  far, 

Thy  proud  hills  in  the  skies, 
Thy  lakes  and  streams  and  rivers  all, 

Have  swell'd  their  harmonies  ! 

And  well  it  is  they  thus  can  sing, 

For  where  can  turn  the  eye, 
And  see  more  that  should  rapture  bring, 

Gazing  on  sea  and  sky  ? 


NEW    ENGLAND.  249 

They  tell  us  all  of  fairer  lands, 

Of  fairer  skies  they  sing, 
But  where  goes  more  tke  eye  or  heart 

On  a  loved  journeying  ? 

The  eye  takes  in  the  spreading  scene, 

The  ear  hears  music  pour, 
Swelling  aloud  from  forests  green, 

From  rock  and  ocean  shore  ; 
The  eye  beholds  at  morn  and  even 

Their  glorious  bursts  of  light, 
And  wonders  at  the  power  that  thus 

Can  make  a  dark  world  bright ! 

And  where  look  you  for  sterner  worth, 

The  power  of  soul  and  mind ; 
The  true  and  only  light  of  earth, 

To  no  mere  soil  confined  ? 
Show  me  the  power  that  makes  the  man, 

Show  me  the  heart  that  's  true,         . 
Show  me  the  hand  to  back  the  heart, 

We  have  them  all  for  you  ! 


250  NEW    ENGLAND. 

And  lo,  our  spreading  villages, 

And  cities  in  their  pride ; 
And  hark  the  din  that  strikes  the  skies, 

From  busy  Art  applied ; 
And  lo,  the  mountains  level'd  down, 

The  valleys  heap'd  up  far, 
And  o'er  them  on  its  iron  track 

Thund'ring  the  frighten'd  car ! 

And  where  look  you  for  "  purer  hearts, 

And  cleaner  hands  "  and  strong ; 
And  souls  that  ape  at  all  life's  Arts, 

Yet  scorn  the  mean  and  wrong ; 
And  hearts  that  look  from  earth  to  Heaven 

With  a  Heaven-lighted  eye, 
And  dream  of  those  pure  lands  that  far 

In  its  blue  bosom  lie  ? 

And  would  you  dream  >of  fairy  forms, 

And  eyes  of  fairy  light, 
And  hearts  that  beat  with  love's  alarms, 

Or  thrill  us  with  love's  might, 


NEW    ENGLAND.  251 

Brighter  or  fairer  than  have  we, 

Sweeter  than  these  of  ours, 
With  which  to  dance  life's  measure  out, 

Or  weep  its  wither'd  flowers  ? 

Ah,  ye  may  tell  of  other  lands 

And  other  eyes  of  flame ; 
And  hearts  that  leap  at  Love's  commands, 

With  bliss  words  may  not  name  ; 
But  would  ye  have  the  eye  and  soul, 

And  form  to  witch  and  win, 
And  lip  to  laugh  away  all  care, 

Come  to  New  England  then ! 

'T  is  true  indeed,  we  may  not  boast 

We  have  a  storied  land ; 
Or  storied  towers  that  line  our  coast, 

Or  mould'ring  on  the  sand; 
Yet  have  our  forests  gray  their  tales, 

Our  forest  haunts  their  song ; 
The  red  man's  glory  lights  them  up 

With  a  light  pure  and  young  ! 


252  NEW    ENGLAND. 

And  'ncath  our  forests  walk  our  sons, 

Dreaming  of  a  bright  name  ; 
And  fired  like  earth's  great  master  ones, 

Striking  their  harps  for  fame ; 
And  dreaming  of  the  ages  yet, 

And  their  loved  country  high, 
Among  the  proudest  of  the  world, 

With  name  that  shall  not  die  ! 


253 


THE    CITY  S    CEMETERY. 


NOT  here,  not  here  would  I  have  my  bed, 
No,  never  here  would  I  lay  my  head  ; 
Where  over  the  wall,  from  the  noisy  street, 
Comes  the  clatter  of  tongues  and  of  busy  feet ; 
As  my  fellow  hastes  by,  wealth's  worshiper, 
And  bethinks  him  not,  that  the  dead  are  near. 

There  's  a  pretty  flower  by  yon  monument, 
There  'a  a  tuft  of  green  by  yon  gray  slab's  rent 
Some  wreaths  of  moss  on  this  urn  appear, 
Affection  has  planted  a  willow  here  ; 
Yet  I  would  not  choose  such  a  place  of  rest, 
With  a  turf  like  this  on  my  lonely  breast. 


254  THE  CITY'S  CEMETERY. 

There  's  a  massy  pile  o'er  yon  sloping  mound, 

And  wealth  has  hedged  it  with  turf  around ; 

There  's  an  epitaph  that  might  surfeit  pride, 

And  the  phrase  is  big  how  its  tenant  died  ; 

Yet  I  would  not  lie  in  this  place  at  last, 

Where  the  stranger  might  gaze  as  he  slowly  pass'd. 

No,  give  me  a  scene  where  may  never  come 
The  smoke  of  the  city  or  city's  hum ; 
Where  the  airs  are  fresh  as  fresh  can  be, 
And  the  voices  of  winds  as  they  titter  free ; 
And  the  bright  green  flowers  put  softly  forth, 
And  all  the  year  cjeck  the  sylvan  earth. 

A  grove  should  hedge  it  around  as  a  shield, 
And  in  it  the  wood-lark  and  thrush  should  build ; 
The  prattle  of  waters  should  come  like  June's, 
And  all  the  day  sing  its  quiet  tunes ; 
And  oft  as  a  new  flower  deck'd  the  spot, 
Some  careless  bee  should  neglect  it  not. 

And  over  my  grave  should  aflection  raise 
No  lordly  pile  to  record  my  praise ; 


THE    CITY'S    CEMETERY.  255 

I  would  not  wish  that  a  slab  record 

My  name  with  a  lie  and  a  pompous  word ; 

No,  no,  I  '11  have  it  a  bliss  impart 

When  spoken,  and  writ  on  the  gentle  heart. 

Perhaps  indeed,  to  that  spot  might  come 
Some  widow'd  heart  in  the  gloamin  gloom ; 
And  softly  kneeling  down  by  the  same, 
There  teach  her  child  to  revere  my  name ; 
And  the  child  should  rise  with  his  blue  eye  wet, 
And  tell  how  he  would  not  my  name  forget. 

'  v 

And  when  should  the  soft  moon  throw  its  beam 
O'er  the  bright  green  leaves  and  the  brighter  stream, 
Some  gentle  hearts,  to  each  other  knit, 
Should  think  for  a  tryst  it  were  arbor  fit, 
And  their  hands  should  close,  and  their  lips,  and  no  fear 
Should  move  their  hearts,  that  the  dead  were  near. 


256 


TEACHINGS    OF    NATURE    IN    CONNECTION  WITH 
HIGHER   TRUTH. 

(AN    EXTRACT.) 

AND  O,  how  much  is  round  us  that  should  cheer 
On  the  high  heart,  in  this  high  path  to  feme  ! 

How  much  to  make  the  path  of  life  more  dear  ! 
How  much  to  make  it  give  us  thoughts  of  flame, 
Ay,  and  the  exalted  bliss  words  may  not  name ! 

God  hath  not  placed  us  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  we  to  draw  no  lessons  from  the  same ; 

But  all  around,  and  writ  o'er  all  the  skies, 
Truth  clear  and  bright  is  flashed  on  man's  discerning  eyes. 

We  have  no  praise  for  that  philosophy, 

Lofty,  yet  vague,  that  goes  forth  on  this  scene, 

And  pushing  out  of  sight  love's  energy, 

Deems  that  it  gathers  from  each  forest  green, 
Each  rolling  ocean,  or  each  rivulet's  sheen, 


TEACHINGS    OF    NATURE.  257 

Or  voice  of  bird,  or  breath  of  eve  or  day, 

Sufficient  to  make  man  what  he  has  been, 
Flinging  life's  Eden  light  about  his  way, — 
Still  is  the  earth  all  deck'd  in  love's  own  sweet  array ; 

And  he  who  would  go  forth  to  it  and  see 

Only  the  beauty  given  forth  again 
We  first  behold  where  love  hath  vividly 

And  clearly  made  the  path  of  duty  plain, 

Ay,  so  clear  that  man  need  not  err  in  vain,  — 
This  is  a  sweet  philosophy  and  true  ; 

We  love  it,  and  its  lolly  truths  we  scan ; 
Ever  we  love  the  same  to  keep  in  view, 
As  this  far  more  that  lovely  world  we  journey  through. 

We  love  to  turn  into  the  forest  shades 

When  the  loud  world  is  shut  away,  and  naught 
Cometh  to  meet  us  or  the  heart  invades, 

Save  what  does  there  invite  to  lofty  thought ; 

And  with  the  glory  that  is  round  us  brought, 
The  grandeur  or. the  grace  about,  above, 

We  love  to  sit  and  muse,  —  what  heart  doth  not  ? 
O,  there  is  proof  of  energy  and  love, 
And  grace  and  beauty  too,  the  finest  heart  to  move  ! 
17 


258  TEACHINGS    OF    NATURE 

The  forest  shafts  that  shoot  up  in  the  air, 

The  dome  of  leaves  on  which  comes  down  the  sun, 

The  forest  smells  from  all  things  breathing  there, 
The  forest  sounds  most  musical,  the  lone 
And  pensive  lapse  of  brook  o'er  moss-gray  stone, 

Or  plaint  of  bird  from  open  skies  away; 
Or  the  low  drone  of  bee  still  ringing  on, 

From  the  far  upland  heights  'mid  grain  at  play, 
Or  where  breathes  soft  the  sweet,  new-scented  meadow  hay  ; 

The  forest  spring  that  bubbles  up  between 

The  gray  and  massive  roots  that  raise  on  high 

Their  lofty  canopy  of  rolling  green,  — 
The  green  and  rod-like  grasses  there  that  nigh, 
And  round  that  bubbling  spring  luxuriantly, 

Start  up  and  circle  it  with  beauteous  hue, — 
And  the  sweet  forest  flowers  close  nodding  by, 

The  yellow  crocus  or  the  violet  blue, 
O,  these  all  please  the  heart  as  they  come  into  view  ! 

For  thou  canst  never,  with  truth-loving  heart, 
Walk  forth  at  morn,  or  noon,  or  at  the  eve; 

Thou  canst  not  look  on  earth  in  any  part,  — 

Thou  canst  not  hear  her  voice,  or  when  winds  grieve 
Over  the  Autumn  flowers,  or  when  they  weave 


IN    CONNECTION    WITH    HIGHER    TRUTH.  259 

Sweetest  of  all  sounds  in  the  Summer's  sky ; 

Nor  canst  thou  from  earth's  mightier  scenes  receive 
Impress  of  horror  or  sublimity, 
But  shall  some  truth  be  flashed,  clear,  full  upon  thine  eye ; 

And  thou  shall  feel  more  ready  to  go  on, 

Into  the  path  of  life,  or  stern  or  bright, 
And  do  thy  work  there,  —  toil  hard  till  all  's  done,  — 

Trusting  at  last  to  find  in  Him  delight, 

Who  placed  thee  where  thou  art,  —  who  gave  thee  might 
In  the  lone  hour  to  keep  thee  in  the  way  ; 

And  thou  shall  feel  more  eager  for  the  fight  — 
Al  leasl,  more  courage  for  the  fiery  fray 
Man  must  aye  wage  with  night,  far  Ihrough  life's  stormy  day  ! 


260 


"  WHO    EVER    ASK'D,"    &c. 


WHO  ever  ask'd  himself,  (and  found  it  not,) 
For  some  deep  sorrow,  far  back  in  the  past 
Of  his  loved  years  ?  —  a  sorrow  such  as  never 
The  heart  can  feel  on  earth,  or  feel  but  once? 
For  one  I  should  ashamed  be  to  say 
Such  was  not  mine.     I  should  ashamed  be, 
To  say  my  soul  so  little  was  a  soul, 
That  it  had  not,  in  its  sweet  morn  of  feeling, 
And  when  the  soul  was  fire,  and  thought  was  not 
That  wise  and  reverend  thing  it  doth  become 
In  after,  sadder  years  —  been  touch'd,  and  bound 
As  by  a  spell  more  strong  than  bolts  of  brass, 
And  which  no  after  time,  nor  press  of  years, 
Nor  crush  of  sorrows,  nor  long,  anxious  cares, 


"  WHO  EVER  ASK'D,"  &c.  261 

Could  rend  away.     Far  back  in  the  dim  past, 

I  see  a  bright  and  holy  place  of  time, 

Where  thought  first  woke  in  me,  and  soul  awoke, 

And  I  did  see,  as  I  had  deem'd  none  see, 

The  beauty  and  the  glory  of  this  life, 

And  man's  and  woman's  soul.     I  do  remember, 

I  sudden  seem'd  come  to  a  world  more  rare 

Than  fancy's  dreamings.     In  myself  all  strange, 

And  yet  most  beautiful,  a  world  I  saw 

Of  light  and  glory  so  divinely  fair 

It  did  amaze  me.     On  this  fair,  God's  world, 

I  look'd  as  it  were  new.     And  new  it  was. 

The  heavens  all  were  new,  new  was  the  earth, 

And  every  thing  that  lives  and  walks  it,  or 

Wingeth  the  upper  deep  and  speaks  its  joy, 

That  was  all  new.     But  't  was  the  world  within, 

The  world  where  is  the  heart,  and  that  heart  all 

On  fire  with  its  affections,  and  all  deck'd 

With  hues  as  beautiful  as  heaven's,  where  I 

Did  gaze  most  strangely ;  and  I  wonder'd  whence 

Had  come  this  world,  and  what  it  was,  and  why 

It  never  had  been  told  me,  or  had  I 

In  all  my  years,  chanc'd  on  its  light  and  beauty. 

In  this  sweet  season  was  it  when  I  first 


262  "  WHO  EVER  ASK'D,"  &c. 

Met  with  a  soul  like  mine,  or  one  that  seem'd 
Struck  from  my  own.     That  soul,  it  was  enshrin'd 
In  a  form  fairer  than  e'er  rose  from  aught 
Has  Fancy  witch'd  from  fairy  land,  or  Genius 
Struck  into  life  with  its  transcendent  powers  ! 
And  that  bright  soul,  within  so  bright  a  form, 
Did  craze  me,  as  I  think,  for  every  thought 
And  faculty  of  being  centred  there, 
And  dream'd  I  of  no  joy  but  blended  was  it 
With  this  joy  here.     For  days  and  years  I  walk'd 
The  earth  with  this  sweet  vision,  and  for  years 
I  hoarded  in  my  soul  the  bliss  was  mine, 
And  seem  I,  from  this  distance  now,  to  have  found 
A  life  of  happiness,  and  crowded  into 
Each  flying  moment.     I  have  shut  the  grave 
'Down  on  that  joy.     I  have,  long  years  since,  shut 
My  heart  off  from  that  good.     I  may  in  dreams, 
Perhaps  a  moment  thither  fly.     In  dreams 
I  sometimes  walk  again  that  fairy  world, 
And  see  its  sky  all  light,  and  hear  its  sounds 
Ringing  on  every  side,  and  see  that  one 
Strange,  hallow'd  image  now  for  heart  and  brain, 
And  sometimes  will  go  back  my  wishes,  and 
I  tire  or  faint  along  life's  slippery  way ; 


"  WHO  EVER  ASK'D,"  &c.  263 

And  yet  I  check  me,  for  I  bear  in  mind, 
We  are  not  here  for  ever,  but  like  waves 
Passing  on  to  another  shore  and  breaking 
Along  its  sands,  and  on  that  shore  again, 
(Death's  cold  wave  cross'd,)  beside  that  form  of  light 
I  sure  shall  stand,  for  there  I  see  her,  and 
I  see  her  arms  stretched  forth  to  me,  and  hear 
Her  voice  as  angel's,  bidding  me  "  Be  firm." 


264 


EAST-MEADOW    BROOK. 


THERE  is,  in  the  sweet  vale  where  I  was  born, 
A  little  stream,  that  to  the  larger  river, 
Which  is  the  glory  of  the  place,  winds  down 
Out  of  the  hills.     It  is  a  beautiful 

And  whirling  stream  —  leaps  rocks,  and  roots,  and  dances 
Round  many  a  little  islet  —  through  green  groves, 
And  skirts  old,  ancient  woods,  till  finally, 
It  empties  its  bright  treasures  o'er  a  rock, 
Into  its  sea.     One  day  (it  was  in  June) 
Just  after  the  green  world  had  donn'd  its  brightest 
And  gayest  robe,  and  beautiful  the  leaves  v 
Hung  in  their  glossiness,  and  flowers  all  over 
The  slopes  and  meads  were  scatter'd,  as  if  angels, 
Winging  the  air,  had  flung  bright  jewels  down. 


EAST-MEADOW    BROOK.  265 

I  wander'd  up  this  stream,  (with  hook  and  line  — 

For  seek  the  trout  this  thread  of  water,)  scarce 

Knowing,  I  must  confess,  what  were  my  thoughts; 

For  sport  I  had  none,  and,  I  must  confess, 

I  was  from  my  boy's  pastime  Avon  away 

By  the  strange  beauty  of  the  day  and  scene. 

I  wander'd  on  —  the  stream  wound  up  afar 

Into  the  mountains.     Through  black  rocks  I  pass'd, 

Where  they  had  sever'd  been  it  seem'd,  by  some 

Throe  of  an  earthquake  —  through  which  rent  the  stream 

Had  forced  its  way.     Again  out  on  a  plot 

Of  circular  pleasant  grass  I  came,  and  where 

The  woods,  ope  at  the  top,  let  down  there  into 

The  wilderness  a  glorious'  flood  of  light, 

Bidding  the  greenest  grass  and  flowers  start  up, 

And  e'en  the  lichens  of  the  rocks  come  out 

With  double  freshness.     Now  again  where,  thick, 

Hung  down  the  awful  masses  of  deep  shade, 

Beneath  which  scarce  I  forc'd  myself,  though  keeping 

The  stream's  cold  bed.     From  out  a  mass  of  wood 

Sudden  emerging,  for  the  first  I  heard 

A  roar  not  unlike  waters,  pitching  over 

High  and  obstructing  rocks.     Alert  I  sprang 


266  EAST-MEADOW    BROOK. 

Forward  to  meet  the  sound,  and  on  and  up 

The  stream  I  breathlessly  pursued,  when  soon 

Burst  on  my  eye  an  altitude  of  rock 

Perhaps  some  fifteen  cubits, -down  which  came 

The  stream,  a  thread  of  foam.     A  handful  scarce 

The  water  seem'd  at  this  place,  still  it  came, 

The  what  there  was,  a  mimic  cataract, 

Down  from  the  height,  and  scarce  a  lovelier  fall 

Has  poet  ever  seen  in  fact  or  fable. 

The  wall  was  steep,  and  leapt  from  off  its  top    ; 

The  stream  quite  to  its  base,  yet  had  it  sprinkled 

On  either  side  the  rocks,  and  flowers  had  fringed  them, 

And  greenest  grass  and  shrubs  had  cover'd  all 

With  a  luxuriant  growth.     I  sat  me  down, 

To  watch  the  waters  pitching  from  their  height, 

And  whirling  round  and  round  in  a  clear  pool, 

And  sending  up  their  foam-bells,  flashing  out 

Into  white  rings  in  mimicry  of  floods    , 

Dash'd  down  Niagara.     I  wonder 'd  why 

Had  God  thus  left  this  lovely  stream  alone 

Here  in  the  wilderness,  and  why  man's  eye 

Had  not  discerned  it,  yet,  reproved,  I  soon 

Felt  how  he  hath,  and  writ  o'er  all  the  world, 


EAST-MEADOW    BROOK.  267 

Set  bis  own  seal  of  beauty,  not  alone 
In  marts  and  open  fields,  but  far  away 
Among  the  wilds  where  man  is  not,  but  only 
The  airs  and  birds  of  heaven. 


268 


THE    RIVER   WILLOW. 


OF  all  the  ornaments  that  deck  our  vales, 
Elm,  poplar,  maple,  beech,  or  alder  shade, 
Give  me  the  willow.     When  dies  off  afar 
Into  the  north  the  winter's  surly  voice, 
And  the  huge  hills  of  snow  melt  down,  and  leap, 
From  their  ice  fetters,  once  more  the  glad  streams, 
And  comes,  with  his  soft  tones  again,  the  wind 
Born  in  the  South,  the  willow-tree  first  shows 
Its  swelling  buds  along  its  slender  stems, 
And  puts  its  glory  on.     As  first  the  twigs 
Shoot  up  like  rods,  to  which  seem  diamonds  strung, 
The  leaf's  white  under-coat  first  being  seen, 
But  soon  the  full-grown  blade  unfolds  its  spear, 
And  gives  the  eye  a  Spring's  flood  of  glad  green. 


THE    RIVEE    WILLOW.  269 

And  all  along  where  wind  our  valley  streams, 
First  see  we  this  sweet  willow,  towering  up 
To  tell  us  Spring  is  just  at  hand,  and  seeming 
Thus  like  a  herald  to  the  world  of  what 
It  knows  is  pleasant  news. 

Now  lay  you  down, 

When  has  the  Summer  come,  beneath  its  shade, 
And  give  your  soul  up  to  the  impulses 
That  touch  and  cause  to  dance  the  mind  and  heart, 
And  you  shall  say  the  willow  's  worth  your  love, 
And  worth  the  poet's  song.     Hark  you  that  sound, 
That  seems  to  come  up  from  below,  of  waters 
Whirling  and  whimpering  sillily  along ; 
Lo,  't  is  the  stream  the  willow  loves,  and  which 
You  always  find  hard  by  him  !     As  you  look 
Far  up  the  vale,  that  stream  precipitate 
Pitches  down  a  jagg'd  rock,  and  tell  me  now, 
Hath  not  the  roar,  by  distance  mellow'd  down, 
And  mingling  with  the  gurgling  river  here, 
A  pleasant  power ;  and  if  you  shall  survey 
This  stream  where  yonder  down  the  vale  it  goes, 
You  shall  behold  a  channel'd  bed  o'er  which 
It  leaps  in  foam,  and  you  shall  see  sweet  grasses 


270  THE    RIVER    WILLOW. 

And  pleasant  flowers  look  down  on  either  side, 

Like  a  coquette  by  stealth,  or  maid  at  glass, 

Striving  to  see  themselves.     Now  hark  again, 

And  what  a  soul-glad  melody  is  that 

Which  sweeps  down  from  the  branches  o'er  your  head  ! 

Didst  ever  bathe  thy  soul  in  liquid  sounds  ? 

Such  soul-like  sounds  seem  these  !     They  are  the  winds 

Touching  their  tiny  wind-harps  set  all  over 

The  boughs  and  twigs  and  leaves.     At  times  you  hear 

Perhaps  but  one  or  two,  again  they  each 

As  emulous  put  forth  their  music  power, 

And  such  a  concourse  of  sweet  sounds  is  flung 

Forth  to  the  air  it  seems  as  charm 'd,  and  birds 

Singing  at  hand  or  darting  by  on  wing 

Hush  their  own  notes  as  harsh.     And  look  you  now 

Up  as  the  wind  comes  —  what  a  blaze  of  light 

Comes  to  thine  eye  !     Each  leaf  a  silver  spear, 

For  here  you  catch  its  nether  side,  is  seen, 

Glitt'ring  and  twinkling  in  the  tittering  tree. 

And  look  you  too,  down  on  the  glassy  stream 

Running  beside  you.     There  the  counterpart 

Of  all  this  life  and  diamond  light  appears, 

As  emulous  in  brightness.     Tell  me  now, 

Is  not  our  river  willow  a  sweet  tree. 


THE    RIVER    WILLOW.  271 

O  lay  you  down  beside  it  when  the  sun 
Is  hot  in  heaven,  and  over  all  the  earth 
The  hot  airs  seem  to  leap  and  dance,  and  faint 
The  cattle  seek  the  streams,  and  birds  are  still 
From  the  fierce,  quivering  heat ;  and  thou  shall  find 
A  breath  here  to  reanimate  thy  powers, 
A  music  like  the  music  of  old  harps 
Of  Seers  and  Prophets,  and  thou  shah  confess 
Our  river  willow  is  a  pleasant  tree. 


NOTES. 


1.  — Page  36. 

* 

Legend  of  Bethel  Rock. 

THIS  is  a  versification  of  one  out  of  half  a  dozen  legends 
connected  with  a  famous  rock  in  the  author's  native  village, 
Woodbury,  Ct.  The  real,  veritable  history  of  the  place  is  the 
following.  In  the  early  history  of  the  town,  the  Puritan  fa 
thers  and  mothers  who  assembled  at  a  church  in  a  neighbour 
ing  valley,  Sabbath  mornings,  would  ramble  off  into  the  woods 
during  the  intermission  at  noon,  when  a  beautiful  resting-place 
was  found  in  the  deep  woods,  near  the  top  of  a  magnificent 
range  of  rocks,  and  where,  under  as  glorious  a  canopy  as 
was  ever  "  fashioned  without  hands,"  they  became  accus 
tomed  to  hold  prayer-meetings.  The  place  was  named  by 
them  as  above,  and  has  always  retained  this  name. 

The  Indian  legends  connected  with  the  place  can  go  for 
what  they  are  worth.  A  number  of  them  have  passed  into 
print,  all  with  "veritable"  vouchers.  Hon.  S.  G.  Goodrich 
of  Boston,  has  been  guilty  of  a  very  graceful  little  sin  of  this 
kind,  published  in  the  Legendary  some  years  since. 

We  vouch,  on  the  Almanac,  our  story  to  be  aa  true  as  the 
truest. 

18 


274  NOTES. 

2.  —  Page  58. 

A 
"7  roam  the  world,"  fyc. 

After  the  third  stanza  in  this  poem,  the  following  was 
omitted. 

Banish  it?  —  ah,  it  should  so — but  the  feeling, 

Deep  and  distressful,  still  is  in  the  breast ; 
Like  some  black  cloud  o'er  Summer's  heavens  slow  stealing, 

Till  the  whole  arch  is  with  the  night  possess'd  — 
O,  so  has  sorrow  come  up  o'er  my  being, 

The  very  sense  of  happiness  is  dead ; 
For  though  all  object  o'er  and  round  it  seeing, 

Still  has  the  sense  of  life  and  sweetness  fled. 

3.  —  Page  67. 

This  Country  prodigal,  fyc. 

A  friend  wrote  the  author,  —  "This  country  furnishes  no 
material  for  poetry."  The  author  sent  him  back  this  answer. 

4.  —  Page  129. 
King  Philip's  Battle-Song. 

The  reader  will  see,  that,  in  this  piece,  we  have  taken  a 
liberty  with  the  aboriginal  tongue.  The  orthography  and  pro 
nunciation  of  the  word  should  be  P6-ko-no-ket,  —  accenting 
the  first  and  third  syllables.  For  poetical  purposes  the  accent 
has  been  changed,  and  thrown  on  the  second  syllable,  —  thus, 
Po-kon-o-ket. 


NOTES.  275 

5.  —  Page  133. 

• 
Fanny  Willoughly. 

This  and  two  or  three  other  idle  pieces  of  the  book, 
some  of  the  author's  soberer  friends  may  not  think  quite  iti 
keeping  with  a  "proper  gravity."  The  author's  answer  is, 
that  the  world  has  laughter  in  it  as  well  as  tears,  and  he  who 
sometimes  causes  a  smile  on  the  human  countenance  may  per 
haps  be  as  real  a  benefactor  as  he  who  would  obscure  it  with 
clouds. 

His  truest  answer,  however,  is,  that  they  were  written  in 
youth,  and  may  be  preserved  for  "old  acquaintance'  sake." 

6.  —  Page  194. 
Childhood. 

The  author  has  here  given  parts  of  an  extended  piece,  writ 
ten  on  a  summer  visit  to  his  home.  If  it  exhibits  nothing 
more  than  a  simple  expression  of  feeling  in  its  connection,  it 
may  afford  pleasure  to  some.  It  is  a  bastard  philosophy  and 
false  religion,  to  live  in  the  past;  but  not  to  travel  back  occa 
sionally,  and,  for  a  summer's  afternoon  diversion,  live  over 
again  the  scenes  that  have  been.  In  this  sense,  it  is  not  folly 
sometimes  to  be  a  boy. 


THE     E  N  1>  . 


r 
*> 


* 


*•; 


•    .. 


A     000672352    2 


KRRATA. 

f      *»?    *•      »       *3| 

Page  20 1— 9th  line— for  "  Rut  there  are," 

read  "  And  there  are." 
Page  230—7 th  line— for  "  Bidding  the  islands  of  the  sea  draw  n«vir," 

read,  "  Bidding  the  islands  of  the  sea  appear." 
Page  2;>7— 9th  lino— for  "  Ay,  so  clear  that  man  may  not  err  in  vain," 

read  "  Ay,  so  clear  that  man  need  not  read  in  vain 
Page  257— 13th  line— for  "That," 
read  "  Than" 

*.  -.jr..>_ 


